


There is Freedom in the Dark

by i_ship_an_armada



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angry Sex, Angst, Captain Flint | James McGraw Has a Thing for John Silver's Hair, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, I can't believe that's actually a tag, M/M, POV Captain Flint | James McGraw, Past Character Death, Pining, Pirates, Post-Canon, Rough Sex, Slow burn for one but flash fire for the other, even with all the smut, istg there’s a plot in here, it is not the plot itself, the magic is a vehicle for the plot, vague suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-11-26 05:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 79,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20924582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_ship_an_armada/pseuds/i_ship_an_armada
Summary: After Savannah, James is a lost, broken man until a bit of magic helps him see what he missed in his past so he may choose a different path leading to the peace he so desperately wishes for.A story of mistakes and bitterness, magic and mysterious messages, forgiveness and love, with a little bit of hope thrown in.Specific warnings, if any, are at the beginning of chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: vague suicidal thoughts

_ The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

**Santo Domingo** **, October 1719 **

Drunkenness did not become him, he knew very well, and still, he picked up the mug of rum anyway and took a long sip, reveling in the irony as he attempted to drink himself into the ground yet again.

If only his crew could see him now. What would they think? That he deserved this? That they had been mistaken?

James snorted. His  _ crew _ . As if they would give a shit. They put him in this position, hadn’t they? Or at least, they had set up the circumstances, the first event of many that ended with him here in this shitty little tavern in the port side town of  Santo Domingo in the middle of Spanish territory , drinking in a way he had eschewed as a naval officer, and most of the time even as a pirate king.

A swig for them, then, and two for Silver for good measure. 

Around him, the dimly lit tavern buzzed with activity and new customers streamed inside, pressing their unwashed bodies against one another to reach the barkeep in the increasing chaos, looking to slake their thirst and to spend their coin upon a whore for the night before they needed to return to their duties the next day. Some were opportunistic local workers, like James, but many were unfamiliar faces, crew members of the ships recently moored in the harbor. Spanish and English, and a smattering of a few other languages James barely recognized mingled with the rest. Excitement heightened the noise level, for a new ship had come into the harbor— a slaver, James gathered from the scattered bits of conversations filtering through his fuzzy consciousness. 

A few brave souls even paused by his table, eyeing the empty seats as the tavern filled, then slunk away after he looked up at them, slicing them to shreds with his eyes. He had no desire for company this evening, or any evening.

“Thirty-two males, twenty-six females survived this time. Over three-quarters,” a nearby voice said. “A good haul, I would say. Should bring in plenty of coin…”

Human cargo. James narrowed his gaze on his newly empty mug, the familiar rage churning in his belly next to the fire of the alcohol as his lip curled in disgust. He despised the practice with every fiber of his being, and yet now he existed right in the middle of a town where new chattel arrived regularly.

His sudden desire for air had him rising too quickly, shoving his chair backward, and the world tilted until he took a deep breath. Throwing down some coins, he grabbed the bottle with the remaining rum and pushed his way outdoors into the humid evening. Determined as he was to get back to his room to finish the rest of the drink alone, he nearly ran over the small woman standing in his immediate path.

She barely reached his shoulder, but stood as solid and immovable as a statue, wrapped in a bright woolen patterned shawl, despite the thick heat. Three strands of heavy painted bead necklaces hung from her neck. 

He grunted, the bottle slipping from his grasp before he caught it with his other hand. Trying to veer around her, he started as a steely grasp on his wrist held him still.

“You do not belong ‘ere.”

Her voice, thick with Caribbean accent, pierced his head and made him wince. His mood soured further.

“Let go, old woman,” he growled, twisting his arm. With a grip stronger than he thought possible, she stayed clamped on like an iron shackle, her gnarled fingers digging into his flesh as she stepped closer. She smelled of herbs, pungent and sweet. Her dark eyes, black in the lamplight, almost disappeared into the wrinkles and folds of her scarified ebony skin. The even oblong marks arced up and over her shorn scalp and down her face to frame her forehead, cheekbones, and chin. He’d seen men and women marked such as this before, on Maroon Island and here in  Santo Domingo — African slaves and freedmen born in faraway lands filtered through this hellhole of a town and then later sent to the colonies to feed the greed of a growing population. 

“You do not belong ‘ere,  _ Captain, _ ” she repeated, tone sharp. 

He stilled. No one had called him Captain in a very long while. A carriage rumbled past as his heart thudded in his chest.

“The fuck are you talking about?” he rasped. “And how—?”

“T’ree hours time. B’yond the Santaniega plantation, on de river,” she interrupted. Her eyes narrowed, and her cracked lips opened into a wry, nearly toothless smile. “Come t’ me and I will tell you how to find your way again.”

James blinked.

At that precise moment, a burly sailor and his two companions pushed between them. She released her grip as the men shielded her from James’ vision for the briefest of moments. The last of them sneered at him, taking in his bedraggled appearance as they passed through the door and into the tavern. 

After, James spun in place, bewildered. The old woman was gone.

* * *

James sat at the small desk, head in one hand and the empty bottle dangling from the fingers of the other. His pistols lay on the scarred wood in front of him, mocking him in the guttering candlelight.

As Captain Flint, he had encountered death often. He had avoided it, caused it, and thought of it every single day. His demons hunted him, tempted him, seduced him into killing others with no compunction to further his goals. When the demons backed away, the guilt and remorse crept in, winding their way around him like a vise in the dark of the night. In those moments, and when he thought of what he had become, so far and aside from what he had been, that is when he considered death for himself. When he and Miranda fled to Providence Island and everything he knew turned upon its head, when they received the letter from Ashe informing them of Thomas’ death, even when he thought all was lost and Silver aimed a gun at his heart, he had not actively entertained the idea of death as an escape. But at other times, unpredictable times, the allure of death crooked its finger toward him, an enticing seductress who whispered of release and peace. 

The rage and the need for an entire empire to pay for its crimes always ended up winning the battle for his life and filled every crevice of his being. It fueled him, nourished him, drained him of his humanity.

Now there remained no war to fight. There was no Thomas, no Miranda, and no Silver as far as he was concerned. There was nothing at all.

The consuming fury of long ago felt like it belonged to some other man, some other force of nature. Separate. 

Perhaps the old woman spoke true and he did not belong here, or anywhere, truth be known. She seemed to call forth the whispers in his own mind, the small insistent voice he heard at his darkest moments told him he had no place in this world. 

But day after day James hung on to this existence, though so often he felt...  _ wrong _ . The feeling had grown since leaving Savannah months ago, pervasive and insidious. 

What did this woman know? Who was she? 

_ “You do not belong ‘ere, Captain,” _ she had said. 

How had she known who he was? He had not bothered to look in a mirror recently, did not even own one in the tiny bare lodging he rented above the cooper in town. Why bother? He knew what he would see. A broken man, clothes torn and haphazardly mended. Hair down to his shoulders, beard long and grizzled, threaded with strands of white. Eyes as dead as Thomas, though James’ body somehow continued to stubbornly live on. He still looked a hard and unforgiving man far as anyone could determine, but then, they did not see him alone at night in his room, like this, defeated and without purpose. 

Captain Flint died on Skeleton Island, left behind in the jungle, and the man that arose from those ashes and then the ashes after Savannah, did not  _ live _ ; he only existed. 

Who could recognize him now? He did not even use his real name, or anything close to it in this place.

But the curiosity over the woman ate at him. He ran a ragged fingernail down the edge of one of the pistol’s barrel before finally picking them up and slipping them into the worn holsters on his chest and hip. Perhaps later, then. But right now, he had somewhere else to be.

* * *

The river had narrowed into a small tributary, clogged with vegetation, smelling of life and death at once. Green growing things and decay wrestled for dominance and left it difficult to say which had the upper hand.

The Santaniega plantation and its rickety dock receded in the distance as James pushed away, his borrowed flat-bottomed boat skimming the murky, sluggishly moving surface of the water. His pole sunk into the muck at the bottom, and James struggled with it, cursing.

Damp and gloomy, nothing was quite as it seemed in this place. Though the sounds of the night teemed here— insects humming and wildlife rustling through the water and trees—shadows and darkness writhed just beyond the tree line like live things. 

James hoped he would not lose his way in this god awful mess. Life might not mean much to him now, but starving to death or being eaten alive by the creatures watching him from the water — their eyes glowing white in the light of James’ oil lamp fastened to the bow of the boat—were not his preferred method of dying. 

_ He _ wanted to decide how his death would happen, and when. Today was not the day.

The natural path through the waterway guided him, drew him inexorably forward. Massive mangrove trees leaned in from both sides, their branches reaching for each other, touching and intertwining overhead. Spanish moss hung from their limbs, brushing over his skin and clothes like a ghost’s caress.

He traveled for a while in this fashion, struggling to push himself onward through the narrow passage, the sweat trickling oil-like down his back. His shoulders ached with the labor, but in its own way, it felt good. 

Since arriving in Santo Domingo those many months ago, he’d taken odd jobs on the beach, not needing the money as long as he lived within his means, but requiring the stimulation and the physical activity— enough to chase the exhaustion he hoped would overwhelm him at night so he could fall into a sufficiently deep sleep to escape the dreams. When he dreamt, he woke up in the dark, gasping out a name, face wet with tears. Sleep would not come for the rest of the night.

Sometimes he found success working toward the fatigue he sought, but most times he watched the sunrise through the warped and bubbled filthy window of his room. Despite this, James more or less held himself in good physical shape. Occasionally he forgot to eat, or didn’t bother, and so he had dropped almost a stone since Savannah, but the muscles on his frame still served him with strength and flexibility, despite the drinking and self-hatred.

One more push and James found himself in a watery clearing of sorts. He could see the clear sky once again, and the moon shone overhead, bright and eerily large. But, where the jungle sang with life just moments ago, now it lay silent. Waiting. 

Two openings in the trees lay in front of him. To the left, they parted, an inviting path, even though beyond it the impenetrable blackness left a cold twist of instinctual dread in James’s belly. Something lay in wait there, watching— something large and dangerous and...  _ old. _

Goosebumps rose along his arms, and he shivered, despite the heat.

James realized, knew in his gut, if he wanted an end, all he need do was push the flimsy flat-bottomed boat in that direction and the jungle and whatever lay in the inky darkness would never let him out again. It would be easy, and even though fear snaked up his spine, he felt the pull, the desire, to move toward it.

To the right, a narrow path through the cypresses also beckoned, and as James focused on it, a light, far away but warm, flickered.

It was enough to decide him. James shoved hard with the pole, sloshing fetid water over his knees.

The moment the skiff entered the passage on the right, the weight of whatever watched lifted. He sighed in relief.

Taking a deep breath and refusing to look back, James pressed on.

She waited for him, rocking on the porch as she observed him tie the boat to a crooked pole on the small jetty leading to her shack. The shack clung to the branches of an enormous cypress, almost an organic part of it, made of a myriad of materials and lumber. Parts of discarded skiffs and even a plank from a broken headboard patched the walls and roof between the logs. Though its single window glowed brightly from within, the shack seemed to suck the light out of the surrounding jungle, leaving it dark and foreboding. 

He climbed up the ladder from the water onto the jetty, pausing for a moment before walking toward the old woman. Until he stopped in front of her, she did not speak and he wondered for the hundredth time what the hell he came here for.

“Come,” she said, waving a crooked finger toward her door. She stood, beaded necklaces around her neck clacking together with her effort, and moved through the open doorway more gracefully than James thought possible for one so old.

She must be a hundred at least, he thought. The folds of her skin, the swollen joints of her fingers all indicated great age. The dichotomy was disconcerting.

When James stepped over the threshold, he scanned the small one-room cabin. 

_ “Jesus,”  _ he murmured and the woman chuckled as she shuffled forward.

Inside, every surface held vast amounts of clutter and mysterious objects. Jars of herbs, spices, unidentifiable withered things, and caged live animals lined uneven shelves. Strings of animal bones, containers— some empty, some full of God knew what— and bunches of tied herbs hung from the ceiling. A small, rough hewn wooden table sat in the center of the room, the two chairs flanking it mismatched and none too sturdy in appearance. A single flowered cup and saucer, seemingly too fine to belong, rested in the middle of it next to a low burning candle. The air reeked of must and something sharp that reminded him of his years at sea. Burnt jute, perhaps.

She gestured to one of the chairs, and pulled the drink toward her, and did not offer him one.

He lowered himself carefully to the seat, but wasted no time getting to his point. “Why did you say I do not belong here?”

She settled into the chair opposite and leaned back. “I said it because it is de truth,” she said, as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world. 

“What do you know of me to say this?” He leaned forward, unintentionally or perhaps intentionally trying to intimidate. Old habits die hard. 

“I know enough, Captain Flint.” Her lips twitched in a small smile at his reaction, a startled flex of his jaw and clenching of his fingers. She lifted the cup to her mouth, took a sip, and the smell of old coffee drifted toward him.

“How do you know me?” Had she known him from before? Maroon Island, perhaps? The possibility chilled him to the bone. He could not afford to be recognized here. Or anywhere. 

He had overheard sailors in the tavern tell stories of Captain Flint’s exploits, some true, others embellished beyond reason, their voices colored by awe and fear, and knew very well discovery meant certain death. Either he would be turned in to authorities and summarily hanged, a symbol of victory for the British Empire, or killed by someone wanting the reputation associated with being the one who bested Captain James Flint. Long ago, he would have scoffed at such a threat, invited them all to try, but a lifetime had passed since then and he was not the same man. He longed for death, for release, but at his own choosing, not at the hands of a corrupt government or fame thirsty fools.

Besides, he did not go by the name Flint anymore and never would again. 

Cocking her head, she tapped on her temple. “I know many t’ings. I listen. I dream. I see.”

As if that was a satisfactory explanation. 

James shook his head at her answer but let it go for now. He had too many questions, and his impatience pushed him, writhing like worms in his gut. “Where do I belong, then, if you believe you know?” How could she, when he did not?

“Your journey has not ended yet, though you may t’ink otherwise.”

Annoyance welled up, heating James’s face. “What the hell does that mean?” Vague answers had always frustrated him. This was no different. “All I want is peace. An end to this.” His life. His loneliness and misery.

She took another sip of her cold coffee and peered at him over the rim of the cup. “You will find it, eventually, but you have to be willing to fight for it.”

To fight. He wanted to scream at the sound of the idea, the word itself. “I have had enough of fighting. I had peace once. It is not mine to find anymore in this life.”

The old woman set the cup down with a clatter. “You did not.”

James reared back as if struck, anger flaring. “You know not of what you speak,” he growled. He had experienced peace. He’d had it, as best as he and Thomas had managed in that place. Until the end when everything had gone to hell.

“I  _ do _ know. And you did not have peace. You had...respite. Not peace.” She sounded like a schoolmarm, scolding an errant, ignorant child, and it rankled. “Dey are two separate t’ings.”

James curled his fist at her semantics. “Thomas is dead. There is only one way for me to be at peace now.”  _ And I am too cowardly to do it myself yet, and so I wait, suspended between life and death, listening to an old woman spout her nonsense. _

She slapped her hand on the table, and the cup rattled. “Foolish boy! Yes, he is dead, but he was not your journey’s end.”

James’s throat was thick, his voice unwieldy through his anger. “He was everything and I…”

Her eyes softened as she leaned forward and patted his arm. “He was not. Important, yes. For you to find your humanity again, but not your everyt’ing.” She shook her head and gave him a pitying smile. “You made poor choices as Captain Flint. Many of them, and you continue to do so. This must stop.”

He looked away, ashamed, not even questioning anymore how she perceived him so well. “Is it not human nature to make mistakes?”

She chuckled. “Yours more than most.”

James’s eyes snapped back to her. “Why am I here?”

She studied at him, considering her answer before speaking. “People who belong are clear. Solid. Full of color... _ Vivid _ . You…” She pointed a gnarled finger at his chest. “You are blurred. Muffled and washed out. It does not happen often, but when it does, it must be corrected.”

He did not understand and his brain could only allow him to repeat her. “Corrected.”

“Left to this path, you will die as you wish. A drunkard. Coins on your eyes. Alone. Those who know you still will not mourn. Dey will remember their fear of you and mock you in de same breath. It does not have to be dis way.” 

Her harsh words rang true and sent a chill up James’s spine. “But why? Why should you care how I die?”

“I care about balance.” She raised her hands, palm up to either side like a set of scales.

“You speak nonsense, old woman.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I speak de truth, James McGraw.”

James sucked in a breath, shocked into silence at  _ that _ name falling from her lips. It seemed within the realm of possibility she could somehow identify him as Flint. In a town such as  Santo Domingo, pirates were not unknown, but James McGraw died when Captain Flint was born . No one here knew him by that name. 

The woman surely had been touched with something— magic, divine sight, the devil, something. No other explanation existed. 

Thomas had almost teased McGraw out again in Savannah, brought him back from the dead, before they had both realized the futility of such a thing. No. James McGraw was long gone.

“How—?”

“De dark awaits. De dark comforts. You will find your peace there. The peace you denied yourself.”

He growled in frustration. Would the damn woman never answer his questions directly?

She reached into a fold of her shawl and pushed something across the table toward him, her dry lips turned up in a semblance of a smile. “Put dis on. While you wear it, you will be able to see into de darkness. You will see your journey for what it has been, what it could be.”

His heart kicked hard in his chest. 

The darkness. 

Her words brought back memories of a conversation held long ago in the bright green heat of a jungle with a man he had trusted up until the end. Even now, after all this time, the plantation,  _ Thomas _ , forgiveness and regret, it still hurt to think of it. 

“What? Are you speaking of my destiny?” he scoffed. 

She lifted her hand away and placed it on her lap and shook her head sharply. “No. Destiny means somet’ing is predetermined. Nothing ‘bout you is predetermined James McGraw.”

He stared at her, letting the words hang in the air and the silence stretch out before he dragged his eyes downward.

On the table lay a coil of braided leather, a small black pouch adorned with rows of tiny cowrie shells tied to its center. James touched it with the tip of his finger. “What is this?”

“You may call it a charm.”

James yanked his hand back at a confirmation of his suspicions. “Magic,” he sneered.

“You do not believe in it,” she said. A statement rather than a question.

He may have been many things, but religious or superstitious he was not, though he acknowledged there were many phenomena in the world nothing could explain. “No.”

She shrugged, but her eyes glittered. “Dat is alright. You do not have to believe in it for it to work. It is what it is and no more. But to take de first step, you must wear it all de same.”

“Work how? What is it supposed to do?” James’ bald skepticism bled through his voice, loud and clear.

“You ask a lot of questions,” she grunted, waving a hand as if shooing away an insect. “Too many. Perhaps you should listen instead.” She leaned forward on her elbows, her voice turning intense. “You can change your path if you wish, or you can be de same man you always were and will end up much de same as you are now.”

He blinked a few times as he tried to parse that out. “What? I don’t—”

She smiled wide, her keen eyes glinting in the candlelight. “I know you do not, child. But you will.”


	2. Chapter 2

_ The memory of everything is very soon overwhelmed in time. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

James lay in his narrow bed. The full moon, smaller here than out on the river, showed itself despite an ever increasing blanket of clouds through his tiny window. The room remained dark, the ambient sounds of the night— men and women’s voices, obnoxious with drink, the lapping of waves along the shore, the knocking of moored longboats against each other, and the breeze rustling the palms filtered through the building. If he closed his eyes tight enough, he could almost imagine...well, he could imagine he was anywhere else but where he was. It calmed him somewhat on nights when he struggled with sleep. 

Tonight, however, his mind would not quiet.

He remembered a time when all he wanted to do was get away from the ocean, to set it and Captain Flint behind him and work the land until the end of his days. 

He had been on a farm of sorts, had he not? Savannah, though a place of imprisonment, had almost worked in its own way. And now the prospect of working the earth, of hours of backbreaking toil turned his stomach. Not because it had been difficult or not what he expected, but because the memories associated with it were too much. 

His hand strayed up to the necklace, touching the small bag and the smooth contents within. He had not opened it, assuming it might be for the best if he did not know what was inside, no matter if he accepted what the old woman said or not. 

It was all preposterous. No charm had the power to change his life or direct his path. He was the only one able to do such a thing, and knowing his current situation, he saw no reason to bother to try. What did he have left to change for?

But he kept the ridiculous necklace on anyhow, finally too tired for any more deliberation, and he closed his eyes. Maybe this once sleep would come easily. Maybe he could sleep through the night and not dream.

* * *

** _SWOOP_ **

It all came to him in a flash of light and awareness, the sensation like a rush of breath into strained lungs after being underwater for too long. Disoriented, he froze when he heard voices.

Only he didn’t freeze. Instead, he walked up to the rail and stared down at the lower deck of a ship. 

Only _ he _ didn’t. He didn’t _ choose _ to move anywhere.

A dream then, but more vibrant and detailed than any he’d had before. He looked about, searching. For what?

_ Christ _, he thought. He recognized where he stood.

He stood on the forecastle of the _ Walrus _. Oh God, how he had missed her. Dreams of her usually did not do her justice because something would be always be missing or out of place. Sometimes she would be on dry land in the middle of a jungle, sometimes she would be in the harbor just off Charles Town, the town alight in green flames, or the mast would be split in two, its rigging littered with mangled bodies, or the entire ship would be stained in solid red as if it had been bathed in blood. But this...this was different. 

It seemed as if he occupied two spaces at the same time. The weathered, oiled wood under his fingertips, the sun on his face, the weight of his weapons along the wide belt he wore at his waist sent a familiar thrill through him. The air smelled of brine and pitch and the sharp odor of unwashed bodies.

And yet, he also perceived the light blanket around his legs, the poke of the straw from his mattress against his back.

Once, Thomas and Miranda took him to see a play at the Drury theater— _ The Wonder: A Woman Keeps A Secret. _ Thomas and Miranda had thought it amusing to watch a play about secrets and lovers and intrigue, but James found it difficult to get past the oddity of people acting on stage, laughing, crying, _ kissing _. His first theater experience and he was very much on the outside of things, and though he supposed he enjoyed the event, he failed to immerse himself like Thomas and Miranda obviously had. This felt similar, watching and almost, but not quite, participating at the same time.

It was as if James viewed the unfolding events of an entirely different person, even though he knew the outcome, objectively was aware he had moved in that way, done those things. This was his past self. This was Captain Flint, a persona he had crafted to reach goals that no longer mattered, and he felt as if he followed a character in a play or read of him on the pages of a book. Disassociated. 

Then the view shifted, centered on one person amongst the mingling, celebrating members of the crew waiting their turn to catch a longboat to Nassau’s shore. 

John Silver, with his riotous curly hair cut above his shoulders, clean shaven, and dear God, his body _ whole _ . _ He is so young here, _ James thought. 

Anger and resentment rushed through him at the sight of Silver, but dissolved in his fascination of the moment, the realness of it. 

Even as Flint watched, Silver slid his eyes upwards as if he sensed Flint’s gaze upon him. 

Their eyes met for just a brief moment before Silver’s widened a fraction and he turned away to run across the lower deck and scramble up the stairs and climb up to the port side. 

_ Look at him run. _ The thought flickered through James’ mind. He knew when this was— the first time he had laid eyes on Silver. Determined to get to him and the missing page from the book, the schedule leading to the Urca Gold, he had stalked him like a cat with its prey. Flint saw Billy and Gates— _ Gates _!— as they followed close behind. 

A wave of undeniable happiness surged through him at seeing his old quartermaster, immediately followed by soul-wrenching guilt. 

Flint strode to a position where he had an unobstructed view of Silver.

“Where the fuck is he going?” said Logan, the _ Walrus’ _ armorer. Another casualty of Flint’s war, he supposed, though indirectly, long since fucked off with that favorite whore of his to Providence or somesuch. Cherie? Cora? Charlotte? Charlotte. That was it.

James stared in abstract fascination at the unfolding scene. Silver climbed up onto the rail, looked back one more time, and sailed over the edge, arms splayed. He winced inwardly because he anticipated what came next, the harsh splat of Silver’s belly landing on the water and the sympathetic groans of the crew.

Logan barked out a laugh, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “That kid must’ve really wanted to get laid— “

* * *

He opened his eyes into the darkness, his heart racing. Dreams are odd, and even the harshest he had experienced usually began to fade almost immediately upon waking. He depended on that, to forget the images his subconscious twisted into his nightmares. 

But this dream, this dream did not fade. The longer he lay there, waiting for it to dissipate and his breathing to slow, the deeper his frown became. How had it been so clear?

Why did he dream of Silver? It was not that James had not thought of John Silver after all this time. On the contrary, he had thought of him often. Often with no small amount of rancor and the tint of overwhelming disappointment.

A chill rose the hair on James’ arms, even as sweat trickled along his sides. 

He had heard his own voice. He had felt himself moving on the deck of the _ Walrus _. Felt echoes of emotions from so long ago, faded over time brought back to vivid reality. Every detail of those few minutes, accurate and sharp. Certainty buzzed through James’ veins. He had not just dreamt.

He had _ been _ there.

Clutching the necklace, the tiny shells digging into his palm, he yanked it off his neck and sat up. He stared at the outline of the pouch in his hand in the dim light, wide-eyed and breathing as if he had run miles. 

Impossible.

Insanity. 

But his gut instinct told him the truth. He knew. He had _ been _ there, living it again through the eyes of his past self. The chill turned into a shiver of apprehension and inexplicable fear.

James had been inside his past self, seeing through his point of view, experiencing his prior actions, physically going through everything in the exact same way. It was not simply just remembering. He had been there for a second time. The understanding flipped his stomach upside down. 

He threw the necklace across the room as if it burned, where it skittered over the rough floor to land near the door. Even in the dark, he saw it, its shadow and shape like a snake twisting and curving on the boards. 

He had known fear. He had been afraid many times in his life, but always with a tinge of anger for the source of the fear itself. 

But this. This was different. This was something out of his realm of understanding. How was it possible to do this, to experience the past again through his own eyes, to _ be _there? Sorcery. Magic. A charm. Whatever the old woman wanted to call it, it was unnatural and it frightened James like nothing had for a particularly long time. 

The old woman, though. She had not intended him harm. A liar knew a liar when he saw one, and she had spoken true. She may not have answered his questions to his satisfaction, but he did not consider her intention toward him nefarious.

The minutes passed, and the fear eventually leaked away, transforming into something else. Curiosity. 

Flint finally gave into it and stood to pad to the door. He bent over to pick the necklace up, turning it over in his fingers as the same question looped around and around in his head.

_ Why would I see that moment again? _

The pouch rested heavy in his hand and still warm from the heat of his body. The pull to put it back on nearly overwhelmed him, and he attempted to fight the urge, but his resistance did not last for long. He lifted it by the cord and tied the ends securely around his neck. 

_ Why that moment? _

He lay down again and stared at the rough ceiling. Why show him Silver? Or was it something else? Something about the _ Walrus _? The Urca gold? Gates? Some other purpose? 

Could he effect change at all? 

The last thought made his breath catch and possibilities tumbled through his mind. If he had known _ then _ Thomas was alive...Or perhaps he could choose to go to an earlier time. A thrill of excitement spiked in his belly, and he pressed his hand against it. He would never know unless he took the step to find out for sure.

He breathed deeply until his heart slowed and he counted back from one hundred.

Would it work? 

He thought of London, of Thomas, of the first time they met. He imagined as many details as possible, the street, the carriages rolling by, the white marble steps he walked up as he introduced himself. His first view of Thomas as he turned to greet him wearing that ridiculous wig. Even through the ache curling around his heart, James’ lips twitched in a small smile.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

** _SWOOP_ **

The disorientation felt much the same— a swoop in his belly and a flash of light. This time, however, he managed to recover quicker, getting his bearings to see where he was.

“— the rest?”

Dark wood desk. Green windows. Ornate black and gold chair. Peach settee off to the right. Ah. Eleanor’s office. 

Disappointment flashed through him. So, he had no control over his destination, then. 

Eleanor moved to stand by his side and his chest tightened at the sight of her. How different things would have been if only…

If only what? She had been anyone else other than who she was? And there she was to his left. Proud. Angry. Alive. 

And there sat Mr. Scott, silent and disapproving as ever. 

And Gates. And Billy. Always Gates and Billy. A sliver of remorse threaded through him before he tamped it down and away. 

_ So much death and betrayal in this room, _ James thought _ . _

“Beg pardon?” Silver said, drawing James’ attention to the conversation at hand. Silver sat directly in front of him at the table, eyes wide and innocent. So fucking innocent. 

A gentle breeze rippled the paper, Flint’s hair, traced its delicate fingers over his neck.

Tension in his frame set his head to ache and he stepped closer. 

“The Urca has a planned stop to take on water somewhere on the coast of Florida,” Flint said, his voice only showing a hint of the anger coursing through his veins. “That’s the point where they’re most vulnerable to attack.This...” He lifted the partial schedule in his hands a fraction. “...describes a course that ends miles short of the coast. Where’s the rest of the course?”

Silver blinked and cocked his head, a glint of cunning flashing through his eyes before it disappeared altogether. “Well, I can’t exactly write that down, can I?”

“Why not?” Billy asked.

“Well, you all seem rather angry with me. Especially you.” He glanced at Eleanor. She glared back. “And if I were to write it all down, then what’s to stop you from killing me right here?”

James chuckled inwardly, his outward self doing no such thing. _ Smart, _ thought James. From the beginning Silver knew how to manipulate his audience. He was nothing if not quick on his feet.

Gates narrowed his eyes and looked as if he wanted to smack Silver upside the head. James could not blame him. How many times had he felt the same way? Too often to count, truth be told.

“I say we bring Joji in here. He’ll have it out of him in ten minutes,” Billy said, and Flint spun away to step toward the window.

_ Turn around! Shit! I want to see! _James thought, frustrated.

Flint leaned against the sill, fingers gripping the edge. James felt the tension in Flint’s shoulders, pulled tight to the point of discomfort.

“Torture won’t help you,” Silver said. He damn near sounded apologetic, the conniving little shit.

“You haven’t seen Joji work,” Billy said.

“No, I mean I have an exceptionally low tolerance for pain.”

_ That is a lie, _ James thought immediately. _ I have seen you in pain. I know what you withstood. _ James sighed, as much as he could, trapped inside the body of his past, remembering his goal. He focused on a small act, turning, perhaps. 

_ C’mon. Turn around, now. C’mon! Turn, you bastard! _

Nothing. Nothing happened, goddammit. Was he was approaching it the wrong way? Perhaps he needed to influence himself in another fashion.

He tried to make his thoughts...coercive. 

_ You want to walk around the desk. You want to turn and walk around the desk to stand in front of Silver. Just take a step. That is what you want to do. _

Nothing. If he could have forced his body to pound the sill, he would have, and the emotion sizzled through him. But as he listened to the conversation, drawn in as he was by the breeze on his face, the sounds of friends long past moving behind him, the anger dissipated. 

Distracting. It was all so distracting.

“I’d say anything to make it stop,” Silver continued. “But there may be a more mutually beneficial solution to all this. What if... I were to remain with your crew?”

Even now, after all this while, Silver’s audacity in this moment amazed him.

“It makes sense. I forgo payment for the schedule in exchange for my share of the prize. You proceed with your plan.” Silver’s words sped up the more they let him speak without interruption. “When the time comes for me to reveal the last piece, I will be right by your side. If what I tell you is in any way incorrect, well, you can do with me what you will.”

Flint placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. 

_ Look at him. So different than when I last saw him on the island. No beard, dark circles and puffiness gone, clear eyes free of the suffering yet to come. The hardness melted away like it never existed. When did that all change? _James thought.

“And when the Urca’s ours, what’s to stop me from killing you anyway?” Flint asked. 

Silver considered Flint’s words, then smiled. “Well, that’s a few weeks from now, isn’t it? We might be friends by then.”

Gates laughed. God, how James had missed that laugh.

_ Cheeky little bastard _ ** _. _ **Flint grinned, both inwardly and outwardly at Silver’s cunning, amusement rippling through him at his absolute impudence and lack of fear in the face of danger.

Silver smiled back even wider.

_ He’s nervous, and yet he still seems...happy. And since when were his eyes so fucking _ blue _ ? _

That thought brought him up short. 

_ What the hell? _

“Good enough for you?” Flint angled his head and looked over his shoulder at Eleanor.

She shifted behind him. “I guess it— “ 

* * *

James opened his eyes to the light of the sun rising shining through the window. He squinted and turned away to face the wall and sighed. Any more sleep would not come now that sunlight peeked over the horizon, no matter how motivated he was to try again.

At least one question was answered. He could not change his past, unless he missed something, some other way to force his past self to respond. But the old woman said he could change his path. Did she not mean change his path in his _ past _? If not, how would watching his actions in the past help him in the slightest? And If he couldn’t change his past, couldn’t choose where or when he went, why take him through all of this? 

He had more questions now than ever. He shook his head, irritated. It was too late. Too many events and tragedies passed beyond his reach. He knew what he had done, who he had become. He did not need dreams or visions to remind him.

James reached up and scrubbed a palm over his face, the usual grittiness in his eyes absent for once. Whatever had happened, it allowed him to get some rest, at least.

Rising, he flung off the thin blanket and set his feet on the floor. Hunger gnawed at his belly.

He stood and stretched. As he dressed, he continued to ponder his situation. The memory of the dreams (visions?) did not lessen, though the pressures of the day crept in. He grabbed a few last things before he stepped out to begin it.

* * *

“Señor Rubio. If you continue to work harder than my contracted employees, I will be forced to hire you as a permanent member of my crew!”

James smirked, handing Maradona the final crate. Captain Maradona took it and set it on the floor of the longboat before turning back. He shoved his meaty fists on his hips and beamed, showing his very white, very straight teeth. Maradona always smiled, no matter the circumstances, and when James first searched out work on the beach, he had taken Maradona as a fool for it. Now he knew better. 

Shrewd and calculating, Captain Maradona of _ La Urraca _ presented himself to others exactly as he wished, and did it with purpose. No buffoon, he consistently outmaneuvered competition and even pirates on the open seas to be one of the most successful sea merchants to call Santo Domingo his home port. His ship, a large but swift caravela, anchored not far off shore in the deep harbor. It gleamed in the afternoon sun. When Maradona came to port, he often sought James out to hire him for whatever task he needed done. 

Reliable employees who did not try to steal from him were difficult to find, he repeatedly lamented.

“They would not appreciate that, Captain, I am sure.” 

Maradona shrugged his wide shoulders and patted James on his back, and would have knocked him off his feet if he had not seen it coming. The captain of _ La Urraca _ rarely realized his own strength and had a penchant for physical expression. “Who cares what they appreciate? I recognize a born seafaring man when I see one, even if you are un inglés.”

“Maybe once, but not anymore,” James said, aware of the double meaning in his words. He was no longer a sailor and did not consider himself English. He did not consider himself from anywhere anymore. He let his gaze roam over the glittering harbor, eyes flitting between all the ships. Not a lie, but only a half truth. A man caught between two worlds, suspended in every way, belonging to neither.

“So you claim, every time I say that. It is a compliment, you know. I would not take just any Englishman aboard my ship.” 

James came back to himself, and raised an eyebrow, squinting into the bright sunlight. “I am aware, and I thank you. You are nothing if not consistent.”

“Good God, I hope not!” Maradona cried. “That would make me boring, don’t you think?”

“No. Never boring, Captain.” James paused a moment before asking. “Where are you off to this time?”

“Kingston, Mexico, St. Augustine, Savannah, Nassau, and then back to this godforsaken place.”

James tried not to flinch at the words. So many memories fighting to drag him under.

“Sugar,” Maradona continued. “They all want the sugar cane. And the rum, of course.” Maradona laughed, a deep belly laugh that shook his whole body. 

“How are the seas?”

Maradona snorted. “You can see how they are from here, but if you mean are there pirates?” Then his characteristic grin slipped for a moment. “Yes. Certainly. Perhaps someday we will be rid of them, the bastards. But _ La Urraca _, she is a fast ship, and I am an even better captain at her wheel.” He shrugged. “More and more of them are swinging anyhow, making it difficult for them to claim their prizes.”

James shifted his gaze elsewhere, stomach flipping uncomfortably. He let the words drift without a response, unsure of what to say that would not give him away.

“Well, you think about working for me, Señor Rubio.” Maradona’s tone turned serious. “You know I could use a good man like you.” For all his bluster, Maradona meant what he said, and James knew it. But he could not. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

“I appreciate the offer.”

Maradona leaned in close and poked James on the chest. “I will continue to ask until you accept.”

James gave him a half smile as he bid him farewell. “Fair winds and following seas, Captain Maradona.”

And then he turned to walk along the sand, seeking more mindless work to fill his day.

* * *

That evening, James ate the largest meal he’d had in months.

And though the tavern wench brought him his usual rum to wash it down, he pushed it aside and asked for a cup of tea instead, wanting a clear head for whatever his dreams chose to bring him that night. 


	3. Chapter 3

_ Everything that happens happens as it should, and if you observe carefully, you will find this to be so. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

** _SWOOP_ **

“—orry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

_ Oh God, no. Not this.  _

The weight of Gates’ inert body pinned Flint to the floorboards, his arm curled around his neck. 

At once the emotions of the moment rushed at James, a harsh swell of anguish and deep regret so pronounced it threatened to overwhelm him, much like when it occurred.

_ Please, not this. Let me out of this. Please,  _ he begged into the abyss. Nothing happened and nobody answered, of course. 

Flint trembled and a sob ripped from his throat. The warmth of Hal’s skin against the palm of his hand was beginning to cool already.

So fast. So fucking fast. 

_ You killed one of the two friends you had in the world,  _ James thought with a wrench to his heart.  _ You absolute fool. _

He fought the staggering crush of feelings bombarding him, wrestling them into submission so he could  _ think _ and watch as the old woman had directed him, even as the harsh judgement of his past self flowed over him like pouring salt on an open, gaping wound _ .  _

There had to have been another way, something he could have said. Something. Anything but this. And yet, the fact remained he had murdered Hal Gates to protect himself and his interests. 

He had acted on selfish instinct when he killed Gates, without rational judgment, and he had been paying for it ever since. How many times had this scene replayed in his mind? How many times had he wished this day had gone differently? Too many to count. Now, reliving the experience of Gates’ death, feeling him lying across his belly, seeing his eyes open and blank, all of his carefully constructed self-preserving walls came crashing down.

James’ throat thickened and his eyes burned as he lay in his bed in Santo Domingo.

The door swung open and Flint unconsciously brought up his pistol. Silver stood in the doorway and raised his hands, but his gaze flicked to Gates, then back again, cool and unafraid. 

James chose to focus on him, a clear ploy to distract himself from what his past self had just done. 

He had not noticed that at the time, how calm Silver had been, unaffected by the pistol in his face. Steady in the presence of danger, Silver did not flinch or show fear. How could Flint ever have thought he would be able to intimidate this man? 

“I came to lend credence to your case that the Urca is still to be won,” Silver said. Flint’s heart raced inside his chest.

James remembered how the despair washed over him when Silver spoke those words, starkly highlighting why he had done this heinous thing, and he felt as if he were drowning. Silver’s even demeanour, though, punched through Flint’s grief. 

Flint dropped the pistol and with haste Silver fell to his knees, leaning forward to rifle through Gates’ clothes. 

“What the fuck are you doing to him?” Flint choked out, bewildered and angry. 

_ Helping, you idiot. Shut the fuck up and let him,  _ James thought, struggling to step back, to separate himself from the emotions of the past.

Of course Silver kept going, checking Gates’ pocket inside his coat. “Making sure there’s nothing incriminating.” 

Silver’s profile, as they were only a handbreadth apart, diverted James from his remembered grief once more. The line of Silver’s jaw sat firm, and his lips set in a grim slash, every movement focused. 

Seeing this glimpse of the John Silver yet to come, James knew without a doubt he had been the cause of Silver’s transformation into something colder, uglier, and far away from this young man in front of him. The light-hearted irreverence he had once found in Silver’s manner had begun to disappear already.

“Stop.  _ Stop _ .” Flint shoved Silver’s arm aside and Silver sat back on his heels. “There’s no way out of this,” he rasped and reached up and stroked Hal’s cheeks as Silver watched.

_ I am so sorry,  _ James thought, and in that moment, he did not know who he meant it more for, Gates or Silver.

Silver paused, his gaze burning into Flint’s profile, witnessing him unravel. 

Another bit of comprehension swept through James. After seeing this, knowing what Flint had done, Silver had stayed, undaunted by Flint’s threats and violence, his obsession and disregard of everyone else’s needs and desires. A self-serving decision for Silver in which he had hoped to get his share of the Urca gold, to be sure, but were there other reasons? There had to have been easier paths for Silver, and yet, he remained. James knew how clouded his own perceptions had been at the time, so what else had he missed?

The silence stretched for a moment.

“Take it from me, there’s always a way,” Silver said, his tone even and sure.

James calmed, just like he had done then.

_ Yes. For Silver, there were usually more than one. _

Flint raised his eyes— 

* * *

** _SWOOP_ **

—Sand. Under his back, on his skin. The sun hot on his bare chest. His trousers wet and clinging to his thighs.

_ God DAMN it, I will never get used to that feeling, _ James thought.  _ And I did not wake between visions. What the hell? _

Disoriented by the lack of transition between the two visions, and the sudden absence of Hal’s weight on his lap, James took longer this time to gain his metaphorical footing.

A sharp pain in his shoulder. Pistol shot by that mutineering piece of shit, Dufresne. He coughed once, twice, more times. His throat burned. 

Ah, yes. After the fight between the Spanish ship, the  _ Walrus _ , and the  _ Ranger _ . An explosion from cannon shot threw him into the water, and then… It had been so easy to stop resisting, to sink and let the sea close over his head in its cool embrace. He remembered weightlessness, and then burning in his lungs, and then nothing. 

The pain in his shoulder flared bright and hot as he tried to sit up and failed. Conceding defeat, he instead looked around him. Silver sat on the sand, staring at Flint with an inscrutable expression, his arms hooked around his knees. Sunlight surrounded his head like a halo.

_ Was he watching me the entire time I was out? _

“I think it’ll be awhile before she sails again,” Silver said as if he had not just seen Flint awaken from a state of unconsciousness, as if he had not just pulled him out of the sea.

_ And yet he had said nothing at all about saving me from certain death, from myself _ .  _ Why? _ James wondered.

Silver’s eyes flicked upward and James followed his gaze, already knowing what he would see. The  _ Walrus _ , beached and nearly over on her port side. Battered and broken by the Spanish ship’s bombardment, their plan, quite literally, shot to hell. 

“In the meantime, you and I have been charged with provoking this whole mess.” Silver’s restrained amusement clear in his tone. 

_ Rightly so. We  _ did _ provoke it, _ James thought.  _ But Silver was enjoying this, the shit. _

Dufresne stepped into Flint’s view. 

_ Sniveling little arsehole _ .

“Why am I still alive? Why didn’t you kill me?” Flint’s voice sounded raw and harsh. James could taste seawater and his throat burned.

And yet here he lay, quite alive. Because  _ Silver _ had pulled him from the sea, James’ mind circled around to once again. He had never asked why or how. Had Silver gone over the rail of the ship because of cannon shot like him, or had he jumped on purpose? Had luck played into it, or had he seen Flint go under from the rail and made a decision to save him? 

Dufresne did not answer immediately, but then his shoulders sagged. “Get him up,” he said before pivoting to stride up the beach.

Silver silently offered to help him up with an outstretched palm, but Flint raised his hand in a motion of declination. Something shifted over Silver’s face before he pressed his lips thin and turned to walk away. 

_ Fool. One time in a long list where my pride got in the way of common sense. Silver saw it. Why couldn’t I? _

Flint struggled to stand, grunting and groaning at the flash of fresh pain in his shoulder before he gained his footing, teetering on unsteady feet, and faced Silver where he waited. He walked carefully toward Silver. They both hesitated. Silver’s eyes flickered down to Flint’s bare chest and then up again, expression blank.

“My shirt?” The wine colored garment, still wet from the sea, lay draped across Silver’s arm. Flint gestured to it.

Silver blinked as if startled into focus, and flushed. “Beg pardon?”

Flint frowned, impatient. Always impatient. “I’d like my shirt, if you —”

* * *

** _SWOOP_ **

Flint rushed at Silver, knife out and then flattened against Silver’s throat, shoving him against the dark wooden beam. Water dripped down his back from his hair, cold on his skin.

_ The Spanish warship this time, after sneaking through the crew’s cabin,  _ James thought _ .  _

Silver’s eyes widened, and he sucked a breath, his chest expanding against Flint’s. Flint vibrated with tension, every muscle wound tight.

“Wait!” Silver said, eyes still large and surprised, but not afraid. 

Here it was again, evidence of Silver’s reckless bravery despite the odds. 

“You almost got us killed!” Flint growled and pressed the blade against Silver’s neck even harder. It shone dully against the tanned skin.

Silver raised his right hand. “Almost! Almost!” he hastened to say. A shiver ran through him, small and easily missed by an angry Flint, obvious as a cathedral bell in the middle of the night to James, who was not. 

Silver’s eyes flicked down and back up, and it was like a punch to James’ solar plexus.  _ So fucking blue, _ he thought.

“For a fucking  _ bauble _ !” Flint hissed, and leaned in a fraction closer, intimidating, angry, and oblivious of their respective positions, whereas James was absolutely not.

“It’s the boatswain’s whistle. Look.” Silver held the object in his hand and Flint glanced at it.

But James’ attention, as opposed to Flint’s, had nothing to do with the whistle. Nothing at all.

Awareness of how close they stood, of how his hip and torso pressed along Silver’s, crept through him like a hot wave, and he barely noticed their exchange of words. What he  _ did _ notice was the warmth of Silver’s breath across his face, the clear blue of his eyes in the shaft of sunlight filtering through the deckhead.

_ Oh. _

_ Oh, bloody hell.  _

“Doesn’t it make more sense for us to prompt the lookout to come down, than for us to go up there after him?” Silver asked, his quick thinking coming to the rescue again.

Flint lowered the knife. 

_ Why didn’t I move away? Did I not discern how intimate this was?  _

“You are truly amazing, you know that? We’re both better off now than we were two minutes ago, yet you’re angry about it because it didn’t happen your way.” SIlver’s gaze sparked with ire. “Might you consider for a fucking moment that your distrust of me is completely unwarranted?”

_ Oh, but that was not entirely true, now was it?  _ came the unbidden thought. 

And then Flint’s eyes skidded to Silver’s mouth, and his frame relaxed enough that he should have moved away, but he stayed where he was yet again.

_ Why am I still standing against him like this?  _ Warning bells rang in James’ head.

“I warned you about Billy. Was I right?” Silver continued, unaware of James’ inner turmoil. “I found you over Mr. Gates’ body, and I did I do anything but defend you? And the sea, who do you imagine it was who dragged you onto that beach? 

Flint flinched at his words and leaned back, but did not move apart, even then.

“Brace yourself, but I’m the only person within a hundred miles of here who doesn’t want to see you dead,” Silver said, mouth curling in a tight smile.

Voices drifted down from overhead, and they were coming closer.

Flint looked up and stepped away.

_ About goddamn ti—  _

* * *

** _SWOOP_ **

_ —me!  _ James paused his internal tirade, head spinning.

“—to make this appeal, you mean me?” 

_ Fucking hell. Another?!?  _

James, hyperaware of everything now, heard Silver shift on the window seat behind him and to his left. 

When Flint said nothing, Silver sighed and said, “Alright, then.” He stood and headed for the door, winding around the hammocks hanging from the Spanish warships’ deckhead.

“Why do you think they went up that hill?” Flint asked.

James had to consider what this was all about. Ah, yes. Hornigold, Dufresne, Mr. Scott, Joji, and De Groot had just left them after discussing what to do about Vane’s possession of the Nassau fort. 

Silver paused. “Beg your pardon?” He turned to regard Flint, his brow furrowed at his question.

Flint glanced up and then down again. “If we’re to stop any more men from joining his side, isn’t it a prerequisite that we try and understand the thinking of the men that have already joined him?”

“Sorry. Are you asking my opinion?” Disbelief. Amusement. 

When he met Silver’s eyes, he said nothing, but James remembered this conversation and what he had been thinking.  _ You were wondering at yourself. At why you would even care what Silver thought, but you could not help yourself from it.  _

“Oh. Well, uh…” Silver grasped the two chairs in front of him and concentrated on a spot above Flint’s head for a moment, giving James ample opportunity to look. To observe at his leisure without notice.

_ Jesus Christ. What are you doing?  _ he thought at himself.

“I suppose one could argue that it’s simple fear.” Silver came around one of the chairs and sat. “Their fear of losing the fort being greater than their fear of Vane remaining in it.” He brought his gaze down to meet Flint’s.

Flint continued to keep silent. Watching and waiting.

James waited along with him, watching while Silver’s expressions flitted from thoughtful, to amused, to serious. 

“But then again, it’s possible this has nothing to do with the fort.” Silver shook his head. “Nor with Vane. Perhaps it’s just them expressing their opinions about you.”

At the time, Flint had been weighing his response, wondering why it mattered what Silver said, not understanding his compulsion to ask in the first place. But now with the clarity one finds with looking back into the past, James knew well why he had asked. Flint might not have recognized the beginnings of attraction, of  _ feelings _ toward Silver, but separated as he was from the memory, James certainly did.

Flint looked down, and James felt the flush of embarrassment rising to Flint’s cheeks. 

_ Christ. Why the fuck am I blushing? I do not blush, for fuck’s sake!  _

“So you think that they see me as the villain in this particular story.”

Silver gave him a shadow of a laugh. “I think that would explain their decision, yes.”

At that, Flint raised his eyes again, and his heart skittered in James’ chest. “And you? What do you think? You see me as the villain here?” 

_ Oh, God. Look at him there, watching me as if I fascinated him. Like I was a new species of animal he had encountered and he did not quite know what to do with.  _

This time, Silver laughed for real. “I see you as the agent most likely of securing my share of the gold on that beach. As long as that remains true, I am not bothered in the least by whatever labels anyone else decides to affix.”

Flint could not look away, and neither could James, as if Silver held them both there, pinioned in place. Tension wound tighter, like a line around a winch, between Flint and Silver, and if James could have shaken his past self and rattled his teeth to make him understand what was happening, he would have.

“Why?” Silver asked, leaning to his right as if he needed to see Flint more clearly. “What do you think about it?”

Flint furrowed his brow, the mood in the room shifting. “I’m sorry?”

Realization dawned in Silver’s eyes, widening them and straightening his spine. “It  _ bothers _ you, doesn’t it? What they think?”

James recalled exactly what he had been thinking in that moment, as if he had said it aloud.  _ Yes. But I care more about what you think. _ He also remembered the ache, and felt it pull his eyes down at the corners when he frowned.

_ Captain James Flint, scourge of the West Indies, one of the most feared pirates to have ever lived, indeed, _ James thought. 

Silver shut his eyes for a moment. “With the things you’ve done…” He laughed again, amazement leaking through loud and clear. “My God. It must be awful being you.”

The words hurt now, just as they had hurt then. Stinging. Biting. The closest anyone had ever come to voicing his secret, dark thoughts about himself.

_ Even then, Silver understood Flint better than anyone,  _ James thought.

Flint clenched his jaw, “Time is—”

* * *

** _SWOOP_ **

The book sat in his fingers, forgotten and unread as he relaxed at the table in the captain’s cabin on the Spanish warship. 

The vision had changed to this one several minutes ago, seamlessly this time, and James suspected that since he was in the same physical pose as the last vision— sitting in a chair—and he had again not woken in between, it was easier for his body to adjust, but he only hazarded it as a guess. 

Though he had been in the same position for a while, he was not aware of the title of the book he held in his hands. What James  _ was _ aware of, however, was how long Flint had been sitting in silence, watching Silver sleep. Looking back, he remembered he had justified the lengthy minutes studying Silver’s slumbering form by telling himself his concern for his crew member’s well-being explained it.

James understood what a farce that was. For all their disagreements, betrayals, and strife, in that moment Captain Flint forgot it all for the chance to watch John Silver breathe.

And now, experiencing it for a second time, even knowing the future of them, James took advantage of it all over again.

_ I am so completely, unbelievably fucked, _ James thought with rueful bitterness. 

Silver lay on the window seat of the Spanish warship, sunlight streaming through the windows in long rectangular patterns across the tartan blanket draped over his waist and stump. Restless, Silver’s brows furrowed and screwed into a grimace of pain over and over.

James wanted to smooth it with his thumb.

When Silver’s eyes finally fluttered open, and his movements went from random to purposeful in waking, Flint put the book down and stood to walk to stand in front of him. Silver struggled to sit up and regard the open sea beyond the window. A breeze played with his curls and the sounds of the men on the upper deck drifted inside the room. 

“Where are we?” he asked.

Flint leaned on a beam and blinked at Silver for a moment before answering.

When he spoke, Silver finally looked in his direction, the anguish in his eyes barely hidden.

“South of Inagua,” Flint said. “Winds blew us east.”

Silver scooted up farther, pain etching harsh lines into his skin.

“We stopped off in Tortuga to refit and garner news,” Flint poured him a cup of watered rum from the flagon nearby and handed it Silver. “Of which there was plenty. Eleanor Guthrie’s been arrested.“ Flint said, not without a bit of irony.

Silver looked up, diverted for a moment from his pain. He took the drink from Flint’s fingers and drank deeply as Flint sat down in the chair next to the window seat. Flint continued to speak, but James tuned himself out, frankly aghast at his inattentiveness to Silver’s discomfort. 

_ I was wrong here. I should have handled it differently. Done something differently.  _ James thought. _ For fuck’s sake. I didn’t even ask how he felt. _

Perhaps Flint had meant to distract Silver from his situation, but it was more likely he thought by ignoring it altogether, Silver would do the same and they all could move on as quickly as possible. 

Perhaps it was both, but whatever the case, James took advantage of this time to acknowledge what he had missed. 

Silver drained the cup and glanced at the flagon, obviously wanting more but unable to reach it. Pain and disinterest in Flint’s monologue was plain in his expression, clear in his eyes, and he fidgeted, shifting positions over and over. 

“—They’ll need to lean on something solid,” Flint said. “On the men that can reassure them that in times like these, there are some things that can be counted on.”

At this, Silver looked positively murderous before his face smoothed out.

James experienced a great amount of shame in that moment.  _ What the hell was I thinking, blathering on and on like an idiot? _ He wanted to reach back through time and shake himself until he regained some semblance of courtesy, for fucks sake. 

Flint smirked and leaned forward to make sure he had Silver’s attention. “But they’ll also look to their new quartermaster.”

James wondered at this. Why had he told Silver at all? He could have waited for the men to surprise him, could have offered him help to get him outside so he could find out for himself. This entire conversation reeked of ulterior motives, but for the life of him, James could not remember if it was to further bind Silver to his side, to give Silver a subject other than his leg to focus upon, or something more personal.

Whatever the case, when Silver looked up, a bit of the old spark in his eyes and said, “They voted?” his voice rough with disuse. 

Flint’s mouth turned up in a half smile. “A few days ago.” His gaze flicked down to the open throat of Silver’s shirt and then he stood. “I think the men wanted to tell you when you awoke, so try and act surprised.” And then he grinned for real this time, and James realized it was probably the first true smile he had ever directed at Silver. 

Silver’s expression dissolved into something akin to anger. 

And yet Flint kept  _ talking _ , heedless, refusing to address the elephant in the room. Silver’s leg. What he had sacrificed for the crew, for  _ Flint _ . How he was going to fit in and manage and cope with the loss. His  _ outrage _ at his new situation.

Maybe that was why, when Flint finally turned away, Silver told him about the Urca gold, lied about it again, brought it up when he didn’t need to, and sounded so…smug when he did so.

“There’s something you ought—”

* * *

James gasped as he came fully awake, already upright in the early morning light, heart pounding. He blinked at the wall at the end of the bed without really seeing it, mouth open and breathing hard. And then he hung his head in his hands and groaned.

_ What the hell was he supposed to do now? _


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

_ “If someone is able to show me that what I think or do is not right, I will happily change, for I seek the truth, by which no one was ever truly harmed. It is the person who continues in his self-deception and ignorance who is harmed.” ― Marcus Aurelius, _ [ _ Meditations _ ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/31010)

James had to go to the old woman and figure out what the hell had happened. Had she cursed him? Did she intend to torture him with the failings and humiliations of his former life?

Because this could not be about Silver. It _ couldn’t. _

There was no scenario in which having feelings for John Silver was a good idea. It could not possibly be his own mind that concocted this absurdity. The source had to originate elsewhere. And the only ‘elsewhere’ that existed was the old woman.

It was the only explanation.

He yanked the flat-bottomed skiff into the river, his panic long since morphing into a vile temper, and he let loose several choice curse words. 

As he pushed away from the Santaniega plantation, he peered over the short levee and onto its fields. The sugar plantation, much like the one in Savannah, stretched as far as the eye could see. Slaves hunched over, hacking at the canes, hoeing the land, working in the fields while an overseer watched them from the back of a horse. He had two pistols and a whip at his side. 

A flash of familiar anger coursed through James, and he tightened his grip on the pole.

The futility of his rage choked him, mingling alongside the unease about his visions. But he was one man, and could do nothing for the men and women behind him. Resolute, but with no small amount of regret, James turned around, his jaw set as he pushed forward again. 

* * *

She waited for him, watching him from her rocking chair. When he stood in front of her this time, she said, “D’ere you are,” and smiled, as if she had expected him. She nodded, pleased as her keen eyes looked him over. “Almost, but not quite.”

“Almost what?” he growled. “And what the hell is your name, anyway?”

Her eyebrows flicked up in obvious surprise, but she did not hesitate. “Obeah is what my _ Maman _ called me. You may call me dat,” she said. Then, she rose and brushed past him with a light pat on the arm without answering his initial question, entering the cabin where warm candlelight flickered, even in the early morning. The mangroves and cypresses blocked the sunlight overhead.

“Almost what?” James repeated to her back, frustrated at her games. 

James followed Obeah indoors as it became apparent she would not answer him until he did so. Two cups sat on the table this time, filled with milky coffee he could smell as soon as he stepped over the threshold, and she pushed one toward him as he approached. 

Fingers curled into fists, he lowered himself onto the rickety chair, his back stiff. He ignored the cup.

Obeah cocked her head and eyed him up and down in the guttering candlelight, nodding again. “You have almost found your darkness. A little farther yet.”

James flashed his teeth, aware of the ferocity of the expression, but not caring in the least. “Oh, I have found it,” he bit out. “I have seen what I have done. Lived it all over again.”

She chuckled in the face of his anger and took a sip of her coffee. After giving it a frown, she scooped a heaping teaspoon of sugar from a cracked bowl and gave it a stir. The tarnished spoon tinkled against the edge of the cup. “Not exactly,” she said and put it on the table. “What you learn dis time ‘round, child?”

Unexpected guilt flashed through James, stealing the energy of his anger. He looked down and away and busied his fingers, curling them around the fragile porcelain. The warmth of the liquid inside seeped through his skin and centered him. “There were other choices I could have made,” he conceded.

“Yes,” she agreed. When she drank from her coffee this time, eyeing it critically, and then she nodded and sipped again, pleased. “D’ere usually are.”

James groaned. “How is this supposed to help me now?” He sighed, as annoyed with his own reactions as with the situation itself, and rubbed his forehead. “I am aware of what I have done and acknowledge my regrets,” he said, his tone softer, more sincere, but then his expression hardened. “But I don’t much give a damn what I did. I am not that person anymore.” The words he told himself so many times came forth with practiced conviction. He swallowed, trying to control his aggravation, but still he found himself turning cold eyes to the old woman. “So what. is. the. _ point _?” 

Obeah hummed unperturbed by his demeanor. “When you see de mistakes you have made, when you see why you made dem in de first place, you can make less of dem later. Sometimes, some can see them right away as they happen, the patterns they make. Other times, it takes a little push.” She shrugged, but the gleam in her eye suggested amusement.

“But I am not supposed to change my path in the past. I tried and it did not work,” James said. It was not a question and the disappointment rolled through him again. What he could have done with such power.

“Who can do such a t’ing?” she replied, her laugh young and musical. “I may have a little of de magic, but no one controls time like dat. What is done is done, and you cannot change it. But you must see it now, removed from it, to understand what to do next.”

Frustration had James gritting his teeth and sucking in a harsh breath through his nose before he spoke. “But why go back in such a way? Why is this necessary? Can I not simply have my memories of what I have done?”

She leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table. “And how has remembering worked for you so far?” She raised an eyebrow and waved a hand. “Anger, grief, passion, dey warp our memories, leave dem misremembered and where dey cannot guide you. Look back upon dem with clear eyes, and you will learn.”

He stared, and the silence stretched out while she waited. What she said made sense, he confessed to himself. When he thought of the past, his life as Captain James Flint, the memories hid behind a dense cloud of emotion — rage, disappointment, regret. But she spoke the truth. These visions revealed many things he had not noticed the first time, but his mood darkened further as he thought about what and _ who _ those details centered.

“I see the same person in all my dreams,” said James.

“Hmmm, yes. D’is is expected,” she responded, unsurprised.

James frowned. “Why is it expected?”

“You have lost your way and you need someone to focus on while you witness de events of your past. He will help you.”

James blinked. “I didn’t say it was a man.” 

She smiled. “I know you didn’t, but he will help you all de same.”

He did not know how to respond to that, other than to ask, “But why him?”

She shrugged again and straightened, groaning a little at the creaking in her spine, cup in hand. “Only you can answer dat.”

The heat rose to flame James’ cheeks. Why Silver? Why did he not see memories of Thomas, or of Miranda? They were the honest, decent people in his life, the ones he would trust to lead him to the right path. But Silver? He didn’t think he could trust Silver to lead him anywhere, much less his future. 

“But you are not done yet, with dis.” She touched a finger to the pouch. “And it is not done with you.”

“How do you know?” He peered down at his coffee, a thread of… something working through him at her words. There was more. He was to see more in his dreams, and most likely those dreams would include Silver. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he bent his head to take a sip of his drink. He grimaced at the bitterness, but took another gulp to cover up his discomfort.

“Because child,” she answered. “You are here, but you still exist in between. Some edges of you are undefined. You cannot go on like dis.”

James wondered at her words. “And what defines these edges I am supposed to have?”

Obeah tilted her head back and forth, as if deliberating how to answer. “It is different for everyone. For you? Forgiveness. Acceptance. Hope…" She paused. “Love.”

Ignoring the rest, James said with no small amount of acrimony, “Love? I am past the point of that, I think. Who would love this?” He gestured at himself, fully aware he presented no prize. Not anymore.

Obeah sighed. “You have been loved. You will find it again, if you do not close your mind to it.”

He snorted with derision and she angled her head, reached to lay her hand over his and got an odd look in her eye. “You became Captain Flint when you cast aside your shame, so you already know darkness is not to be afeard, child; it is to be embraced.”

* * *

James slammed the coins on the bar. “A bottle,” he said to the man behind it, who raised an eyebrow. The barkeep reached under the counter, pulled a filthy bottle out and slid it across to him with a nod. 

“There you go, mate.”

Without a word, James grabbed it and found an empty table in the back of the noisy tavern, as far away from anyone else as he could get. Not that he was ever social when he drank, but considering his black mood, sitting in the back suited him just fine.

He sat down hard, the bottle uncorked and to his lips before he settled, and he did not put it down until he had consumed a quarter of it. It burned its way to his belly, and he relished the warmth. Only when the heat trickled through his limbs did he lean his head against the wall behind him and close his eyes.

What the hell was he going to do? 

How did knowing of his attraction towards Silver move him forward in any way? Silver was not here and too much had happened between them to solve anything now. A vast rift separated them that had nothing to do with physical distance. 

Besides, attraction did not mean shit if nothing supported it, and that is what this had to be, simple physical attraction he failed to notice in the past. He certainly was not going to hunt Silver down just to have sex and satisfy… a _ craving. _He could have a fuck here on Santo Domingo— a hell of a lot of them, any type he wished. The oldest town in the Bahamas, the population of Santo Domingo exponentially outnumbered that of Nassau, and boasted more than a few brothels to suit every predilection, even his. 

Other than the physical, James did not know what he felt for Silver anymore. Anger. Betrayal. Sadness. Gratitude, certainly, for finding Thomas and bringing him and Thomas together again, but even within that, there lay traces of emotions more volatile and dark, a myriad of confusing emotions that had no name. 

And what was the ultimate goal of these visions? Obeah did not seem to know either, other than the fact that James had to experience them and figure out the purpose for himself. Where or to what were they leading him? Off of Santo Domingo? He scoffed. There was nowhere else for him to go. Back to piracy? Only if he wanted to live the life of the hunted, every day tainted with death and destruction, which he did not. 

He took another long drink from the bottle.

“I tell you, you piece of shit! They’s runnin’ scared now.”

James opened his eyes a little, scowling at the obnoxious voice from his left. Two rough-looking men sat at a small neighboring table, rum cups in hand and leaning close to each other, though they spoke loudly over the moderate din of the tavern.

Pirates. James knew the look of them without having to think twice about it. He narrowed his eyes and took another sip of his own rum, trying to relax, and yet every nerve in his body tingled. He listened. Typically, he avoided contact with pirates passing through Santo Domingo, choosing to stay in his room or find work on another part of the island when they occasionally arrived and set down anchor in the harbor or in one of the nearby coves. This was not one of those times. Something in him told him to linger and listen.

The second pirate snorted. “You don’t know what yer talkin’ about, Dickie,” he said.

“Do so. Heard it myself from Ying-ze on the _ Jackdaw _ . They’d just pulled a prize, big fucker, too, and were turnin’ ‘round to head to Tortuga with the _ Hispaniola _ as consort when hunters caught up with them.”

The_ Hispaniola. _ Shock had James’ sitting up straight. He clutched the bottle to his chest so hard his knuckles creaked.

He was not so isolated as to not know the _ Hispaniola _ was Silver’s ship now. His heart thumped hard.

“So? Happens ev’ry day,” slurred the second pirate, unimpressed and well into his cups. 

“No, you listen Amos!” Dickie said, sounding nervous. “New one this time. Clever captain. Fast ship called the_ Morrigan. _ Ying-ze said it was the fastest ship he’s ever seen, an’ he’s seen plenty.”

“Not as fast ‘s Roberts’ or Long John Silver’s,” said Amos, making a whooshing sound and snickering.

James tried not to wince at the Silver’s name, but failed. He knew Silver continued to sail for prizes and took daring risks that were legend all over the West Indies, but he had not heard his name so casually spoken in quite a while, and not since he started having the visions. 

But a new pirate hunter who seemed to be worth something more than just the title interested him. Not since Benjamin Hornigold died by his hand on Maroon Island had there been a formidable adversary to the pirates who continued roaming the West Indies in search of gold and treasure. 

Dickie hissed. “Faster. They only got away because Silver got a lucky shot off and sheared two of the_ Morrigan’s _ masts at once.”

A smile threatened at James’ lips at the probable hyperbole of the sailor’s recount. Ship cannons shot far and with devastation, but destroying two masts at once stretched the imagination. 

Amos snickered again and then his tone turned serious. “They’ll never catch him. That’n’ll be a ghost and roam the seas until the end days, creatin’ havoc, just like Flint still does.” 

James raised his eyebrows at that. So, he roamed the seas as a shade now, did he? 

“Flint?” Dickie said, lowering his voice as if he was afraid someone might overhear, though his efforts remained futile. “You stupid bastard. Man’s still alive somewheres, I tell you. He ain’t no ghost.”

“Silver kilt him off, he did. Now Flint sails on his phantom ship and—”

A quick lick of anger burned across James’ chest, hot, bright, and painful. 

“Naw. He’s—”

James could not stand it anymore. He stood, shoving back his chair, and stalked out, blindly pushing past the gathered men in the tavern to the street, and kept walking.

* * *

The streets of Santo Domingo were alive with sound even at the late hour, but James heard none of it as he walked. His feet took him where they pleased, the warmth from the liquor long since dissipated, and the tension in him growing with every step. By the time he stopped in front of the brothel on the edge of town, he fairly vibrated.

He stood outside looking in through the open archway from the other side of the road, hesitating. Of the several brothels in Santo Domingo, most were of a type similar to the one in Nassau, those on Tortuga, on any pirate’s ports of call. Partially clothed women abounded, plying men with drink so they would open their coin purses all the wider, vying for position and the best visibility, their status fluctuating according to the wealth of the customers they managed to snare. Liquor flowed, the debauchery indulged and celebrated, and the women of Santo Domingo’s brothels earned their coin hand over fist. 

No different, this brothel happened to sit on the outskirts of town, but was no less busy than the others he had passed earlier in his journey. Tinny pianoforte music filtered outside, and the laughter of both men and women followed. 

Tonight, he had no interest in diversions of the flesh, but it was still a place he could get another drink, and he wanted that more than anything at the moment.

James squared his shoulders and stalked through the door, taking a position at a stool near the bar counter. Smoke hung heavy in the room, thick and acrid, giving the space a hazy appearance. 

He gestured to the barkeep who set a filled dented tin mug in front of him and walked away without a word. James held it in his hand, but did not drink yet as he took in the crowd. A pair of well-muscled men stood near the door where he had entered, arms crossed over their vested chests and narrowed eyes scanning the room. They looked enough alike to be twins, their sleek blonde hair pulled up in a knot on their heads, and dark eyes the same shape and shade. 

A group of three men sat at a table, each with a whore in his lap, laughing and funneling their hands up shabby petticoats while the whores teased them by squirming in their arms. Two of the men were absorbed in their task, while the third, though occasionally looking at his lapful, watched his mates more often and with great interest. 

Two whores lay intertwined on a settee on the edge of the room, one dark, one fair, petting each other with casual familiarity, whispering to each other and giggling. 

A sailor whom James recognized from one of the crews he worked with a few days ago on the beach followed a man and a woman up the curving stairs to the second floor. He glanced over the crowd, the color high in his cheeks when he pivoted around to scurry after them as they entered a room at the top of the staircase.

James tilted the mug back and emptied it without tasting the contents. 

“You look lonely,” purred a voice from his right. 

“I just want a drink,” James growled. He turned, frowning, ready to push the woman away. “Why don’t you just—” He stopped and blinked.

The whore smiled at him, teeth peeking behind wide curved lips. A red satin corset, cinched tight except for the last few laces, pushed a well-defined chest forward. 

A well-defined chest of a man.

Flushing, James raised his eyes. Brown ones as dark as night gazed back at him through impossibly long eyelashes. Long black hair curled in disheveled ringlets around his face and over his shoulders framed high cheekbones and full lips, tinted with a small amount of color. Though dressed as a woman, and though he wore makeup as a woman might, these things did nothing to hide his masculinity. 

James’ heart jumped in his chest. That _ hair. _

The whore noticed him looking, and lifted a lock to coquettishly brush it against his pinkened mouth. “You like what you see?”

Throat dry, James could hardly croak out a proper response. “I—”

Shaking his head with a keen sparkle in his gaze, the whore tsked at James and laughed. “Mon cher.” he said, tilting his chin to show off his long neck. “You give yourself away. The place is full of women, and yet you have eyes only for the men. You are not the first and will not be the last. That is why we are here.” He pointed to a small group of two other male whores off to the right side, trying to look alluring, but only succeeding in looking bored. “I am Andre,” he continued. “What is your name?”

“James,” he answered before he even knew what he was doing. His voice sounded rough, even to his own ears.

Andre hummed and flashed a smile. “I can tell you will not be one for conversation, non?“ When James did not answer, he nodded. “Come, James,” Andre said, running his fingers down James’ sleeve and curling them around his palm. He tugged forward. “Let me help you feel good tonight.”

James stood, mesmerized by the whore’s hair, the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat as he spoke. A few inches shorter than James, Andre was thin, but he was no waif. Even with the paint on his eyes — heavy black liner like Max used to wear and something to cause his eyelashes to thicken and curl — Andre in no way could be mistaken for a woman. The faint shadow of a beard showed on his pale skin, wide shoulders gave way to a tapered waist and slim hips under the dark silk pants he wore. Small golden hoops adorned both ears.

Somehow, they ended up in a room on the ground floor behind the bar, and Andre closed the door after them both when James entered. The sparsely furnished room was clean and neat, with dark green heavy brocade hanging over the walls, presumably to dampen the noise to some degree. A large four poster bed dominated the space, and the only other furniture was a solid-looking nightstand with a basin and a jug of what James presumed was water, and oddly enough, an ornate carved rocking chair in the corner. A thick braided rug padded the boards of the floor. 

Andre circled James, trailing a hand over his chest. He leaned forward and rose on his toes to murmur in James’ ear. “Tell me what you would like,” he said, lips pressing on his jaw, teeth grazing gently over his beard. 

James’ mouth opened in a quiet intake of breath, and he shuddered at the sensation, but he turned his head away and closed his eyes. “Behind me. I want you behind me,” he whispered. _ Where I can’t see you. Where I can pretend for just a few minutes. _

Without pause, Andre hummed an assent and slithered where James wanted him. “Whatever pleases you, mon cher.”

The warmth of Andre’s body pressed against James’ back, and arms wound over his torso, fingers exploring, carding through the hair on his chest through the open vee of his shirt to tease a nipple. “How is this? I will give you what you like. Anything at all.”

_ Oh, God, it’s been too long _. His heart sped up and his head spun.

“Put your hands on me,” he said breathlessly and opened his eyes to stare at the peeling, painted ceiling as Andre mouthed his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. Some of Andre’s curls fell forward and brushed James’ neck, causing him to shiver, his hand reaching up and back to rake through Andre’s hair, the locks twisting in his grasp.

It felt like silk.

_ Oh, God, yes. _ His cock, only partially interested before, now rushed to life and ached with the sudden intrusion of blood. He groaned when nimble fingers untied his breeches to expose him and then wrapped around his length. 

Andre licked at the back of James’ exposed neck under the length of twine used to tie back his hair. “Mmm. You are so strong, Ja—” he began.

James interrupted by grabbing the hand at his chest, frowning at Andre’s voice because it sounded _ wrong _ for some reason, as Andre worked his other hand up and down. “No. Don’t speak. Don’t say another word,” he gasped out.

After that, Andre stayed silent even after James came, a name on his lips and Andre’s curls entwined around his fingers and pressed against his cheek. 

* * *

Later that night, alone in his room, James took off the necklace and set it beside the bed on the table and turned his back to it as he prayed for the oblivion of sleep he knew would not come. 


	5. Chapter 5

_ Accept whatever comes to you woven in the pattern of your destiny, for what could more aptly fit your needs? ~ _ _ Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

_ Scrape. _

_ Scrape. _

_ Scrape. _

The paint peeled back from the hull in uneven curls, and James brushed them aside every third time he pulled the two-handed tool. A pile lay near his feet, and yet he had better than half the longboat left. Not that this bothered him. Repetitive, mindless work like this occupied his day and body, serving a double purpose: to exhaust him and also to muffle his thoughts so he did not dwell on the ones scraping on the inside of his skull. 

For the past six days, any moment spent in his own head sent James into a spiral of confusion and unfocused anger. Anger at himself, at Obeah, at Silver, at circumstances and choices, and confusion because his next steps, if they existed, if he _ wanted _ them to exist, remained obscured. The hope that not wearing the charm, avoiding the visions, would give James clarity had long since diminished into a hollow feeling of unfamiliar and uncharacteristic indecisiveness.

James peered up at the overcast sky, grateful at the break in heat as a soft breeze lifted the stray locks that escaped from the twine holding the hair off his face. His back ached as proof of his hard work and his age, he supposed. 

In Savannah, Ogelthorpe quickly discovered James’ natural aptitude for carpentry and put him to beneficial use. Though he also worked the fields with Thomas at his side often enough, several times Ogelthorpe had him in the barn or in the yard, doing repairs or woodworking something new. 

As a child, James watched his father creating with his hands, the wood chips and sawdust falling away until a beautiful specimen of art or furniture stood in its place. He had always marveled at his father’s handiwork, believing it akin to magic. What was more likely magical was how James’ father rambled on as he worked as if James was an adult, sharing his plans for a piece of wood or instructing James on the proper use of a tool. Sometimes, he held James in his lap and guided him as he tried the tools out for himself on scrap lumber. 

These sessions were few and far between, happening only when James’ father came home to port between sails, and later not at all after he died of dysentery at sea, but the interest stuck and James continued to practice at every opportunity.

He enjoyed it, producing something with his hands, watching a piece of wood transform into something else altogether.

Now James’ skills often served him well when he needed to find employment, and though scraping the paint off the hull of a longboat lay far below his aptitude, the work stilled his churning stomach. 

Exactly what he required. 

* * *

James tossed the tool down and lifted his chin to the sky. Finished with the job, he closed his eyes for a moment, fingers straying to the lump in his pocket before falling to his side. He had done that all day, an absentminded confirmation the necklace rested there, though he refused to wear it. Until now, it lay on the worn table in James’ room, untouched and strategically ignored. He had given into its pull today, unwilling to put it around his neck, but slipping it into his trouser pocket all the same. 

He sighed and opened his eyes, bending over to scoop a ladle of water into his mouth from the drinking bucket set out for the workers that day. Though the warm liquid tasted flat, it did the job and James drank his fill before straightening up once again.

The sun glowed through the clouds, a luminous spot lowering in the west, and he rolled his shoulders to relieve the ache. About to turn and locate the quartermaster of the _ El Gato Negro _to collect his day’s wages, someone spoke behind him.

“Pardon me, but where might I find a passable blacksmith in this town? I have weapons that need more repair than my poor armorer is able to handle at the moment.”

James stopped moving.

Jesus fucking Christ. He would recognize that drawling voice anywhere, and he could not believe his utter lack of luck.

Jack fucking Rackham. 

James’ heart pounded in his chest, his tongue turning thick in his mouth.

Another voice sounded from behind him— Hector Ferreira, a local worker James identified merely by the tone of the gruff voice as he had worked with him on occasion. “Down Calle de Magdalena and take your first left. You will see Señor de Fuca’s place right away. Just listen for the cursing.” Ferreira chuckled at his own wit as he often did.

“Thank you, my good man,” Rackham said, and there was a rustling as if Jack had patted Ferreira on the back or the arm. He hummed. “And the nearest drinking establishment is…?” 

James did not know why he had not moved. The sound of a familiar voice from his past should not have affected him this way, and yet, he stood rooted to the spot. Part of him, the part he preferred to bury inside himself, wanted to turn around, headlong and heedless into confrontation with Rackham and see what would happen. The more sensible part of him simply wished to learn why Jack was here. The_ Colonial Dawn _ was not moored in the harbor, so it must be up the coast in one of the many inlets along the shores of the island. 

It was a well known secret that though pirates often raided and harrassed the coastal and riverside plantations, and they rarely moored within Santo Domingo Harbor. Pirate ships dropped anchor well to the east and out of sight of Spanish vessel traffic in coastal bays and inlets and camped on the beach. Several of these spots held well for moorage and shelter, a few even with decent curvature of the surrounding land to offer camouflage from the open sea if needed. Perfect for pirates unwilling to risk exposure in Santo Domingo. It was by tacit understanding that as long as they stayed out of sight, they would not be hunted by Spanish authorities, but come near enough to be seen from the town, and they presented themselves as fair game. And although frustrations about this very dichotomy were coming to a head, the local authorities had yet to call in any official interference. Besides, payments to look the other way when the occasional pirate came to town to collect supplies, or to drink and to whore, were more attractive than calling the Spanish navy in and have them disrupt lucrative trade.

The governor and his magistrates were nearly as corrupt as Nassau’s had been before Henry Avery’s violent takeover from its governor years ago, but they had a healthier respect and fear of their mother country.

“Farther down on the same road, mate.”

Steps sounded along the sand away from his position, but then, “Brilliant. One further query, if you will. I am in need of laborers. Ones with skills in repair, if I can find them.”

That answered the question of why the _ Colonial Dawn _ was here. Something had happened, something profound enough to have Jack come seeking repairs in Spanish territory. Curiosity buzzed under James’ skin, but he knew damn well he needed to get out of there before anybody noticed him, even though no one could recognize him from the back. Hair too long, clothes too shabby, body too thin, he could be anyone, just another pair of hands looking to use them for coin. He still held the ladle for the water bucket, and it creaked ominously in his palm as he gripped it, his nerves on edge. Taking a deep breath, he bent down, set it in the next to the wooden container, and turned to leave. 

“No lack of them in Santo Domingo, to be certain. This man here, he is an excellent start.” Ferriera laid his hand on James’ shoulder, stopping him mid-step, and James had to tamp down the urge to turn around and punch him in the teeth for pointing him out. His shoulders rippled with tension and there was no way Ferriera did not feel it. “Rubio? What do you say?”

James’ heart threatened to burst through his chest as he shook his head sharply and roundly chastised himself for lingering this long. He threw off Ferriera’s hand and stalked off, moving with stiff strides, feeling Jack’s eyes on his back. 

“Well, he’s a pleasant fellow, isn’t he?” Jack’s sardonic tone trailed after him. An offhand excuse from Ferreira followed, though James could not pick up what he said. 

Only when James was sure he was out of sight did he step behind a stack of crates to lean up against them, chest heaving.

“Fuck.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “_ Fuck _,” he spat out with more emphasis.

He craned his head around the edge of the crate, hardly taking but a moment to find Rackham. It was not difficult, the idiot peacock wore an emerald green brocade coat lined in gold braiding and a bright white shirt. His ridiculous tinted rectangular glasses perched on his nose, obscuring his eyes, but he faced mostly away from James, so James watched unnoticed from his position. 

Jack spoke to Ferriera for a few more minutes and then made his way toward Calle de Magdelena, James following close enough to see him, but far enough back to not attract attention.

* * *

James slipped into a spot at the bar in the tavern, shoulders slumped, and waved over the barmaid. “Wine, bread and cheese,” he said. Though barely hungry, he knew he needed to eat, and he certainly needed to drink.

Jack Rackham could talk more than any man he knew, save John Silver. At least Silver’s verbal antics amused him, but Jack? Jesus Christ, but he could wear down a saint with his loquaciousness, and James was no saint. 

Jack had talked to the Señor de Fuca and the blacksmith’s apprentice for over an hour, and then he had stopped at the town’s clothier for God knows how long to talk about God only knew what. James did not trail him close enough to hear his conversations, but could perceive the cadence of his distinctive voice at a distance. It had been sufficient. The only bits of information he gleaned were the_ Colonial Dawn _ had been in a fight with a prize, more armed than originally thought, and she had taken moderate damage before limping into a cove on the island’s eastern shore. 

James had left a half hour into Jack’s foray into the clothier, tired and impatient, knowing eventually Jack would end up at the tavern.

When Jack finally strolled in, he was not alone. A short man, not even to Jack’s shoulder swaggered—because that was the only way to describe how he moved—beside him, eyes narrow under a wide-brimmed hat. James ducked his head as they walked by, taking a deep drink of his wine to hide his face in the cup. He turned his head slowly to observe them, waiting until they seated themselves and called the barmaid to them before picking up his plate and cup and moving to a table directly behind them. Back to Jack, James hunched over his meal, and tried to look engrossed in it. He could barely taste what he put in his mouth.

“Ah, shit Jack. How long’s it going to take?”

Jack sighed. “My dear boy, I appreciate your concern, but I can guarantee you, I do not wish to linger any longer than you.”

“Did you get the supplies we needed?”

“I suppose we will find out on the morrow when the men I supposedly hired show up to do the job.” Jack said with a wry twist to his tone. It seemed apparent he did not trust his sources. Good on him for that, though Ferriera knew what he had been talking about, and de Fuca had a good reputation, though James had not experienced it firsthand. “I think I will let Anne know to add Santo Domingo to the list of supply ports. She will be needing to find somewhere else to moor after the unfortunate event in Port Royal last week.”

James smirked at the same time anticipation buzzed down his spine.

“She’s expecting us. You know how she gets when—”

“Yes, I am well aware,” Jack interrupted and James heard him swallow and then set down his cup. “We will meet more or less as scheduled. She knows how long to wait.”

“How much do you think we got?”

“Galgano is still accounting, but enough to take care of repairs and line our pockets.”

“Well, your meanin' of lining our pockets and mine is a bit different, Jack.”

“Mark_ ,” _ Jack started, then paused. The way he said it made James cock his head. “You will not be shortchanged. No one will. We have plenty pieces of eight to buy your liquor and your… well, whatever it is you buy with your coin. Just be glad it was a merchant we came across and not the _ Morrigan.” _

The bread James chewed turned to ashes in his mouth. 

A nervous laugh. “Bloody hell. That bastard will be the death of us all.”

“He does seem to know what he’s doing.”

“Is it true he were on the account?”

James rubbed a hand over his face. _ Christ _. Just what they needed, another pirate turned pirate hunter. Bad enough when Hornigold turned against them all, and he had been an adequate captain. But if this one was better? The pirates in these parts were right to be nervous.

“’Was’, _ Mark,” _ Jack corrected. “And yes, if one is to believe the rumors. A pirate of the East Indies I understand, and a brilliant one at that. Goes by the name of Captain Scott now.”

James frowned. Other than Mr. Scott, he had not heard the name before. 

“They said he were called the Ghost.”

James nearly snorted into his cup as he took a drink. _ Oh for fuck’s sake. That’s worse than Long John Silver. _

“His name elsewhere does not seem to matter now, does it? That he excels at his job here where we try to earn our living is what is troubling.”

“Can’t catch you, Jack. No one can.”

“Let us hope that is the truth, my dear boy.”

They went on to talk about inconsequential things, but James barely noticed, buried in his own thoughts as he was. This had to end. This suspension between two worlds. When he finally focussed on the present, Jack and his companion were long gone. 

James tied the necklace back around his neck.

* * *

** _SWOOP_ **

God, he hated landing in a vision like this, especially when he admitted to himself it coupled with the nervous fluttering of anticipation. 

Flint’s arms ached, sweat poured out of his skin, and his and Silver’s harsh breaths sounded louder than the splash of their oars. The Spanish warship lay in the distance, her sails hanging limp against the clear blue sky and the heat beat down, relentless and unending. He sat in the longboat, rocking gently as it glided over the water with each stroke. 

_ Oh, yes. This conversation. _ James remembered it entirely through the fog of his own recollection, hunger, thirst, and fatigue blurring everything like a swipe of an artist’s brush over wet paint.

Silver’s eyes bore a hole in his back. He waited for him to speak. He grimaced, recalling that much of this, how it started. 

“I stole it from you,” Silver rasped. 

He could remember not particularly caring what the fuck Silver referred to at the time, delirium teasing the edges of his consciousness, and Flint answered as such. “What?”

Silver hesitated and sucked in his breath as if gathering his strength, which was a possibility in hindsight, considering.

“The Urca gold.”

Flint continued to paddle and Silver kept speaking, probably encouraged by Flint’s lack of immediate response, which seemed to be their pattern of communication overall.

“I told you we were deceived about its having been recovered by the Spanish. Wasn’t entirely true.” He sounded a bit out of breath, which was not a surprise. But experiencing this anew, and knowing what was to come, James had to wonder, why? Exertion? Exhaustion? Or nerves?

Flint’s mouth fell open, and James remembered trying to fight his way through his cobwebbed mind to understand.

“_ You _ were deceived,” Silver said, his emphasis sounding vaguely triumphant.

Flint’s hands slid off the oars and crossed over his belly. It hurt, ached with hunger, and yet he had not noticed until right at that moment. 

_ Oh, yes. Betrayal, _ James thought. _ You should not have been surprised, idiot. Did you think he would be fucking _ grateful _ to you? _ He berated himself.

Flint stayed still.

Silver continued, “I built the lie, enlisted the scouts, arranged the sale of information to Captain Rackham. I conceived it all. You know, I’ve had my fill of hearing you go on about his crew begin too weak to keep up.”

The weight of Silver’s words pressed upon Flint shoulders and they sagged. Every word felt like a lash now to James. A well-earned accusation.

“Some of them may be weaker than you. Some of them may be less smart.” 

The emotion shook his voice and James was suddenly grateful he faced the warship. He would rather face all of the cannons in her complement than confront the emotions in Silver’s voice in that moment. 

_ Coward. I am a fucking coward, _he thought.

“But don’t you for a second believe I fit that description. Whatever happens out here, one thing is certain. You _ will _ account for me.” Silver heaved a breath, and Flint swallowed, his throat dry.

_ I didn’t, did I? Not until now. _

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you can decide... to fight me,” Silver said, his tone sounding less than enthusiastic at the prospect. “Kill me and figure out a way of hauling back to that ship alone, or acknowledge the fact that you and I would be a hell of a lot better off as partners than as rivals.” Silver’s voice wavered.

James’ cowardice evaporated just like that. He wanted to turn. To see. To _ agree. _

“You conceived all of this? The cover story, the end game on the jetty? Waiting for the scouts to return?” Flint turned his head a bit to the left, but did not turn around.

He had been so surprised, though his sluggish mind could have had plenty to do with it. Now, shame rippled through him at his lack of foresight and incognizance. 

“Yes.” Not proud or triumphant now, only tired, Silver responded. 

Flint then pivoted slowly to the right and stopped when he heard Silver reach for something—the enormous three barbed fishing hook they had brought with them to pull the whale carcass in. He paused. “What did you do with your share?”

A pause. “I gave up my claim to it.” 

“Why did you do that?” 

“Because I saw no way to hold it and remain a part of this crew,” SIlver said, his voice shaking. “And without these men, all I am is an invalid.” The self-loathing seeped through, and James’ heart twisted painfully. 

Again, frustration sparked through James when he could not turn around at will. 

_ Why did I not do that? It would have taken but a moment to deny it, to tell him he was something much more. This was it, the turning point for us, where we started to work together instead of at cross-purposes, and all I did was sit there. _

Flint did not move for several moments, processing what Silver had said, and then reached out and grabbed the oars again. He began rowing.

As they neared the whale, Flint’s stomach rolled. _ Holy hell. _The odor was just as awful in his vision as it had been back then. 

“Oh, God,” Flint said as the boat bumped against the carcass. “Oh, it stinks.” The boat swung around and he got a good look at the whale mostly submerged in the sea. Its gray flesh glistened in the sun, mottled and tight with the gasses that had brought it to the surface. Barnacles clung in batches near the large, paddle-shaped pectoral fin. The reason for the beast’s death remained unclear. 

“Oh... Oh, it’s long gone,” Flint said as they both turned to see it up close. Flint’s eyes slid to Silver. 

_ God, look at you. So thin. We are both so feeble here. _James could feel it under his skin what Silver must have been feeling in that moment, the aches and fatigue of too many days without proper food or water, even with the extra rations of those slimy eels he had fought so stringently against. James still could not eat eel, the thought of it turning his stomach.

They struggled to their feet, trying not to topple the boat. Flint’s legs wobbled beneath him and James wanted to reach out and lean on Silver. His fingers clenched in the blanket on his bed.

“We can’t eat that,” Flint said right before his knees buckled and he collapsed to the seat, weak and disappointed beyond belief. “Let’s head back to the ship.” His shoulders sagged and he hung his head. James remembered the defeat, the hopelessness that rushed back in.

Silver grunted as he pushed away from the carcass using the harpoon, but did not manage to push off far.

Flint put his hands on an oar.

James realized Silver had not yet spoken a word about the whale. Very uncharacteristic of him not to comment and telling of his state of mind. What had it taken for Silver to admit everything about the Urca gold and his deception to him, to expose himself to the single person who could destroy him because of it?

_ Thump. _

Flint turned around, movements slow and uncoordinated.

_ Thump. _

Silver’s face shone with sweat, but his teeth ground together as he raised the harpoon again. 

_ You knew. You knew what was under us, Silver. So clever. Did I ever tell you that? I cannot remember now if I ever did. I should have. _

The harpoon came down with a crack. 

_ Thump-thunk. _

Something slammed the bottom of the boat, shaking it. Flint and Silver raised their heads in shock, gazes meeting and then they scooted to peer over the edge into the still blue sea.

Long, sinuous bodies slid underneath the longboat. Sharks. A lot of them. Even now, the first sight of the killers gliding through the water gave James a thrill. Beautiful and deadly, they ruled the realm beneath the sea. Amazing creatures he never wanted to meet whilst in their territory. 

“We can eat those,” said Silver, breathless, and James’ heart skittered in his chest. 

They looked at each other and Silver passed Flint the harpoon— 

* * *

James blinked into consciousness with one thought on his mind. Silver had handed Flint the harpoon with such an expression of trust. After their argument over rations, after Flint killing the two crew members for stealing food when Silver could not pull the trigger, after Silver’s confession, how could he have simply trusted Flint not to end him? A quick twist of his wrist and Flint could have sent him into the water with the sharks.

Everything centered around trust. Or more specifically, the lack of it.

James supposed they had been even on that count. Neither of them showed any pattern of integrity in all the time they knew each other. For fuck’s sake, Silver had ordered men to _ murder _ him, men Flint had, if not trusted, respected for their loyalty to him. 

But had he not brought their perfidy on himself? His close-mouthed leadership, his narrow minded vision of a pirate nation’s future, his skepticism of his crew’s ability to make choices for themselves left little for the men to trust. He had needed to be brutal, to be dominant, and force his way down the throats of others. And now, sitting in the dark thinking about his reasons, his war based on his own rage, his own revenge on the leviathan that is England because of the injustices it had visited upon him and those he loved, left him hollow. 

All of this got Miranda shot in the head.

All of this put Thomas, the man he loved, an _ aristocrat _with grand ideas and soft hands, in the fields of a plantation in Savannah, which eventually killed him, too.

And James McGraw? Flint’s war ended him as well.

And what about Silver? What had Flint’s war done for him? Stripped him of his love for life, his innocence, his leg, and more, because as sure as anything James knew there was more to Silver’s injuries he had not perceived. 

What was left for him? For both of them? 

James curled his fingers around the necklace and closed his eyes. Whatever path he proceeded down now needed to be travelled to its end, and therefore he would not remove it again until whatever this was finished, but neither would he sit idle and wait for his future to find him. He had to discern if this journey was for nothing and go on as he was, or if he should trust his instinct to choose action.

His fingers tightened on the leather pouch. Decision made, he breathed deep and opened his eyes, clearer with purpose than he had been in days, months perhaps.

It was time to take a risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm...I know some will be sad there is no direct interaction with Jack. I am a bit, too, but it just didn't work for what I wanted to happen in this chapter. *sad face*


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

_ Observe always that everything is the result of change, and get used to thinking that there is nothing Nature loves so well as to change existing forms and make new ones like them _ _ . ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

Once he made a decision and knew what he needed to do, the visions returned. 

For the next few nights, they came at a decelerated pace, slowing to a trickle of one or two a night. Short bits and pieces of his life as Captain Flint, his interactions with Silver illustrating time and again the signals he had missed in his own behaviors, the reciprocated but hesitant clues Silver let slip, and mistakes they both made. So many mistakes.

Some visions seemed inconsequential but for a glance or a brush of a hand, but most meant so much more. Each of them taught him a lesson in regret or humility in their own way.

In the cage on Maroon Island, Silver talks him out of doing something foolish by telling him Flint’s death would bother him. If Silver had told Flint to not do it because of any other reason, he must have known he would have been ignored. But to say what he did, he knew which words had the most impact. He had seen through Flint as if he was but a pane of glass. James woke from that one unable to sleep again.

At the fire after burying the Urca gold the night before the battle, Silver gazes at him as if he hung the moon as he shared his story, and James knows Flint did much the same in return. James heard the tone of Silver’s voice change after Flint finished his story about Thomas, felt Flint’s own belly twist when Silver said he was afraid he would be Flint’s end because he was the closest person in the world to him.

The glint of Silver’s eyes when he says he enjoyed killing Dufresne brings on a wave of guilt coupled with an intense, staggering desire that had James waking with a galloping heart and a rock hard cock, his orgasm coming at him so violently as he stroked himself barely two times and he shouted Silver’s name into the dark and made his throat raw from it.

On the bluffs, sparring— there were several of these visions in a row, littered with an undercurrent of unsaid words, subjects which should have been pressed, brought into the open, examined. Touches and glances, meaningful phrases disguised as something else if one did not scrutinize them. A flash of want quickly buried within John’s blue, blue eyes when James told him staring at his eyes would be a good way to get himself killed. A dance around each other beyond the swordplay they both pretended it to be. Those were the most difficult, knowing opportunity after opportunity had been missed, ignored.

A hand brushing along Silver’s shoulder as he grieved for Madi, wanting to do so much more, but caught in the permanence of his past.

Oh, but the last. It should not have been the one to tear him apart and lay him exposed. Woodes Rogers and Madi across the water on the_ Eurydice _, her life in danger and in the balance. Silver shouting at Flint to not repeat the order he had given to aim the cannons to intimidate. The layered tension growing between them, the unbearable ache in his chest at Silver’s obvious agony, the urge, even through time and within his past self, to reach out and comfort, to give him whatever he needed to be happy, even if it meant destroying everything he fought for. And Silver’s eyes, oh how he looked at Flint when he had backed off, and all at once everything fell into place. Every painful piece of the puzzle that stripped him bare from the inside out, scraped him raw until his soul bled. Realization and despair at what he had lost cascaded over him, even as Silver’s men brought out the gold to show Rogers.

* * *

James came out of the last vision feeling as if he was pinned to the bed, unable to move with the weight of his emotions. The revelations he found in them stripped him to the bone, exposing his secrets, his desires, his weaknesses, and his mistakes. 

This time was different, the stepping out of his past to take part in the present, and he knew he would see no more tonight. He brought a trembling hand to his eyes, unsurprised at the tears he wiped away.

No more lies. No more shying away. James, if nothing else, was no coward.

Oh, God. How had he missed it? How had he not known himself to such a grievous degree? Time and time again he had proved himself an arrogant shit, caring only about his own ends, but in the midst of it all, he let Silver grow close to him, learn him like no one else. 

There was a reason why he’d let it happen. 

James could count the number of close relationships in the entire span of his adult life before Silver on one hand. Admiral Hennessy, Thomas, Miranda, and Gates. Four. Four people he let see bits and pieces of himself.

None of them, not one, had ever seen all there was of him, whereas Silver had seen it all laid bare. The ugliness, the raw emotions of vengefulness and grief, the weaknesses in him and the strengths. Silver had seen them all.

And he had not flinched away. 

Even as the other crew members regarded Flint with fear and loathing because of his manipulations, even as Flint grew more wild and desperate for danger after Charles Town, Silver seemed to be drawn to it like a moth to a flame, and James had missed it all, lost in himself and his malignant rage.

James took a deliberate, deep cleansing breath and sat up to swing his legs around.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he calmed enough to think about these revelations and what it meant for his memories of Thomas. He waited for the guilt to twist in him, to tear him apart, but it did not appear. His love for Thomas, for what they had, was non-negotiable. It had existed both in London and at the plantation, and it was beautiful while James had it in the palm of his hand, and he would always love Thomas. Always. Of that, there was no doubt. 

So how was it possible to look back and see himself ignoring his own growing feelings for Silver and not feel like he was betraying the memory of Thomas’ love? 

James lifted his gaze to the ceiling as the truth began to seep in. Thomas would be the first one to tell him to love as he wished, to not limit himself. Who was to say a person could not have more than one love? His relationship with Thomas and Miranda had uncategorically proved the heart did not fill up with love, it expanded to let in more. 

Could he love again? Yes, he knew that now. Would it be any less profound? James didn’t know the answer to that, and maybe he never would, but he knew very well Thomas would want him to be happy in whatever life he chose. 

So, James chose. 

He was such a fool, an utter, blind fool, and he despaired at how many times he had come to this realization since Obeah gave him the charm. With a sigh, James scrubbed a weary hand through his hair, his heart eventually calming to a more reasonable cadence as he faced his reality.

All of this anguish caused by revelations and the opening of wounds that needed an airing out did not really matter to anyone but him if he never saw Silver again. 

Even with the half-formed plan he had swirling about in his head, he had no idea if it would work. Unfortunately, it would not depend on him, it would depend on Silver, and that was a gamble indeed. 

Silver sailed God knew where at this point since the return to British rule in Nassau. Most of the men and women he knew on the account were either dead or scattered to the far corners of the West Indies. Or further. 

He missed his opportunity with Rackham, he supposed. But as soon as the thought passed through his mind, he discarded it. The fool would have gotten James killed within a month with that mouth of his, revealing his presence to the wrong person at the wrong time.

It was not as if he could contact Silver in any direct way, and even if he did, what in God’s name would he say? He groaned and put his head in his hands, berating himself for his inner turmoil. 

He sighed and lay down again, wondering what the night had left in store. 

As it came about, the night only held a sound sleep. No more visions occurred that night, or any other thereafter.

* * *

All day while he worked on the shore, moving cargo, helping crews repair damaged masts and riggings, James’ mind drifted. 

Over a hearty supper he didn’t even taste at the tavern, his mind drifted. 

Knowing he would not sleep well, he walked down to the beach as the moon rose. Most of the men and women camped on the beach perused the town, eating, drinking, or whoring their night away, so it was a simple task to find a quiet spot to think.

He sat and dug his bare toes into the cool, sugary sand, boots and socks beside him. The sky, clear after yesterday’s wind, yawned for what seemed an eternity; a spray of bright stars glittered against the black. The moon, a sliver now against the inky darkness, crept up the horizon, its feeble light reflecting off the calm waters of the harbor. Beyond the half dozen moored ships, the ocean’s violent waves crashed on the shores to the west and east of the harbor as well as along the high coral reef protecting it on one side.

It was breathtaking, and yet James saw none of it, lost in his own thoughts.

He had been there an hour when movement and the clacking of beads drew him back, and he looked up. Obeah smiled down at him, her eyes gentle. 

James had long since given up on trying to understand her motives, her reasons for singling him out, the way she had worked her magic, so it should not have been a surprise to him she found him sitting on the beach in the middle of the night. Without a word he waved to the spot next to where he sat. 

She lowered herself to the sand and wrapped her shawl more snugly around her shoulders, and for a while, it seemed as if she only wished to contemplate the night sky in companionable silence alongside him.

When the quiet became too much, James said, “Would you care for it back? I think I have seen everything it needs me to see.” He watched her face as she continued to look to the sea. 

She raised her chin and closed her eyes for a moment before turning toward him and she shook her head. “It is not finished quite yet. It has one final task to complete, one thing left to show you and whom you seek.”

James frowned. “_ Both _ of us? How? I don’t even know where he is.”

Obeah laughed, gently mocking. “Dis is one of de busiest ports in de West Indies. Do you not think an opportunity will present itself to you?”

He tasted bitterness like acid on his tongue. “Will it?” This was part of the reason he sat here. Tired of waiting for an opportunity that might never come, for fortune to bless him though it had so often done the opposite, he needed action, and quickly. He had come to this spot to think through his choices.

His mind tripped over one thing, though, and he frowned. “It only works when I sleep; how can I show anyone anything?”

“You will know when it is right. He will stand at a crossroads, as you did when you came to me.” She tapped the pouch at his neck. “Dis will help push him in de proper direction, as it did you.”

He stared at her, for a moment bewildered at her persistent kindness and guidance, no matter his recalcitrance. “Why? Why did you do this for me?”

She laughed, mirth making her eyes twinkle, though it was not mocking. “I tol’ you. You did not belong ‘ere, and I enjoy fixin’ broken t’ings. You were dimmed. Washed out.”

Those words again.

“And now?”

Her smile grew wide, flashing the gaps in her mouth. “Now? Now you are _ vivid _, child.”

A year ago, he travelled from Savannah, jumping from ship to ship with no destination in mind, surrendering himself to his grief and rage. He had lost Thomas a second time, again unable to do a damn thing about it, wracked with remorse for living _ again _ when Thomas could not, but this time also for the last few months before he died. Santo Domingo offered him a chance at anonymity, a chance to become someone else, but even now, he did not know who that was. 

“And where do I belong?” _ Because I do not know, and I fear I never will. _

“You did not belong here, in this time, because you were caught in another,” she said. “Now you are free of it. Do you not see? You belong anywhere you like now. Without the shackles of your past, you belong where you choose. Here, d’ere.” She waved a gnarled hand toward the sea. “Wherever.”

Never would he have thought he could be comforted by sympathy. He had always eschewed it, reacted violently toward it, and now, from this old woman, it wrapped around him like a blanket. Because he knew her words to be true, because they felt that way, curled around his heart, he didn’t argue. His voice rough and thick with sincerity, he leaned over to cup his fingers around hers.

“Thank you.”

She twisted her hand to grasp his, patting it with the other. “You are welcome, child.”

* * *

He waited two weeks for his opportunity, and though the necklace hung around his neck, it showed him no more visions in the night.

* * *

The_ William _ lay anchored in the cove around the east side of the harbor, out of sight, sailing in as the sun rose. The whispers of its arrival met James when he walked upon the sand, ready to start his day and news of her appearance changed his plans. Instead of finding employment, he wandered a short distance away from the crowd and sat upon a slight bluff, overlooking the activity along the beach, waiting. 

Today would be the day then. Anticipation tingled under his fingertips.

When she finally showed her face on the shore in front of the town proper, she made her way through the tents and crowds of whores and men, stopping to talk to whom James assumed were her crew members. Within a particular small cluster, her expression portrayed her agitation, and with a snarl and a sharp gesture, they scattered, wasting no time attending to whatever task she assigned. 

Like Rackham, Anne Bonny presented an easy target to find in a crowd, and from this distance, James could observe her unnoticed.

She appeared much the same as he had seen her last. The same hat, the same rich auburn hair interspersed with thin braids down her back. Her coat was new, if he was not mistaken, and ankle-length and black and intricately stitched, much like James’ favorite from another lifetime. But the most remarkable thing about her, the greatest difference, lay in how she held herself.

James knew her to be vicious, fiercely loyal, and one of the most lethal pirates on the account, but she had always carried with her the weight of the world. It seemed they all bore it, at one point or another, he mused. And although her expression seemed no less fearsome, now she walked with confidence, with the surety of someone who realized she held power in the palm of her hand, proud and arrogant.

He squinted under his wide-brimmed hat, watching her weave between the tents as she made her way toward town. Smoothing the skin over his right knuckles, and then his left, he suddenly missed the rings he wore as Flint to spin on his fingers.

A group of men carrying a roll of sailcloth walked in his direct line of vision, blocking his view for just a moment, and when they passed she had disappeared into the crowd.

He cursed under his breath, eyes flicking this way and that, trying to pick up the sight of her. Damning his luck and about to stand up, he stilled when cold metal pressed against the base of his skull.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?”

James smiled, but let it fall away as he turned his head slowly, showing his hands, knowing better than to make a sudden move. He brought no weapon today, or any day he worked on the beach, so his gesture was a conciliatory one. The barrel of a pistol aimed at his face, James lifted his chin to give her a full view of himself from under his hat and raised an eyebrow. 

“I would be much more likely to answer your questions if you put that thing away, Anne.”

Her eyes widened and her pistol dropped an inch, but she did not withdraw it.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “The fuck—?” Anne scanned him up and down, stepping back as James rose, palms out to his sides. 

“Precisely.” James waited, but when it became apparent she was at a loss, he lifted a finger and gestured. “The pistol?”

She blinked, lips still parted in shock, only hesitating for a moment more before she slipped the weapon in its holster at her waist. “The fuck are you doing here? Ain’t you supposed to be in the Carolinas or some shit?”

James flicked a quick glance around them, and satisfied they stood far enough away they would not be overheard, he quirked a crooked smile. “I was. Now I am not.” He shrugged as if that would explain it.

A gamut of expressions flitted over Anne’s features, and James waited them out until she settled on suspicion.

“I am not after your ship, if that is your concern,” he said. 

Relief sagged her shoulders a fraction, but her eyes and her response were sharp. “Alright. The fuck you want, then?” She shoved her fists on her hips, the sleeves of the coat riding up just enough to reveal a long green velvet ribbon wound and tied about her thin wrist. 

Anne Bonny did not wear ribbons.

James flexed his hands and rubbed a thumb over his forefinger. “I want you to send a message.”

She stiffened, lip curled up in a characteristic snarl. “A message?” she huffed, incredulous. “I ain’t your fuckin’ messenger, Flint.”

His nostrils flared at the name, and at his natural response to her lack of respect, but he grit his teeth to fight through it. “I know. I don’t have much choice, but it is not complicated. Or long.”

Anne’s eyes narrowed further into glittering slits, but she did not move to walk away either. “Don’t give a shit.”

James waited for her curiosity to get the better of her. He did not have to wait for long.

She cocked her head and pursed her lips. “Who for?”

He let out a breath, relief surging through him. “Silver.”

With a sneer she leaned forward. “Ain’t talked to that piece of shit in a long time.”

“He is alive, isn’t he?” James had not considered the possibility, would not consider it. 

“Yeah. He’s alive last I heard a week ago.” Anne snorted. “What the hell you plannin’, Flint? Because whatever it is, I ain’t gettin’ involved.”

“It is none of your concern.”

It was her turn to shrug, but he had her. She would deliver the message, if only to find out what would happen when she followed through. “Seein’ as how you’re askin’ for a favor from me, you’ve made it my concern,” she said.

James raised his chin. “Tell him James McGraw wishes to speak with him here on Santo Domingo.”

Confusion washed over her face. “Who the fuck is that?”

“That’s all I need you to say to him.” Frustration colored his tone. The silence stretched thin between them, and then her posture shifted and her gaze turned calculated.

“You know there’s still a bounty on your head.”

“Yours, too. All of us do.”

The wind gusted, whipping her hair about her face. She ignored it.

“Yeah, but you ain’t no pirate no more. You ain’t got a crew, or a ship to back you up, so,” she tilted her head, “what’s stopping me from turning you in to some pirate hunter and collecting on the reward?” A smile curled her lips. A shark’s smile, and he recognized it because he had used it so many times himself when he thought he owned the upper hand. She was as sly as she was stunning, this one. Negotiating with her was like navigating a coral reef at top speed.

“Nothing.”

His eyes stayed steady on her, refusing to show an ounce of weakness. He knew the moment she recognized Flint in his stare when he broke first and glanced away. 

“You’re such a bastard.”

His lip curled. “I am aware. But a bastard who is no threat to you anymore.” He did not want to ask, but he had to know. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Will you do it?”

She sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it, if he’ll let me close enough to even talk. He’s a right cunt now, you know. Has been since you left the account.” She smirked. “Think those two things are connected?”

Not answering her question, and trying hard not to consider the implications, James simply said, “Thank you.” He nodded stiffly and turned to walk away, heart thudding.

“Flint,” she called, and James winced, gaze darting around to see if anyone had heard. He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“If he comes, don’t waste it. Us pirates, we got to take advantage of our time, you know?”

His breath caught in his throat as she watched, her keen eyes peering at him from under the brim of her hat. No response would come to his lips that he wanted her to hear, so he did the next best thing. He deflected.

“How is she?” As soon as he asked, Anne’s fingers strayed to the ribbon.

A flash of something soft flickered over Anne’s face before her expression hardened. “She’s the most powerful woman in Nassau, even if no one can say it out loud.”

For all the trouble Max caused him on Providence Island, he wished her well. The world needed more women like her, unafraid and unforgiving in a world full of men.

“You don’t seem to have any difficulty in saying it.”

Anne cracked a grin, a genuine one this time. “No. No I don’t.”

James cleared his throat, a sharp tick of anger flashing through him at the fact he needed to ask. “I don’t have to ask you to keep my presence here between you and I, do I?”

“Fuck off, Flint.” Her gaze scraped him from head to toe. “Ain’t no one would believe it anyway or recognize you, I think. You’re different.” 

He smiled, truly amused at her observation.

She blinked at his grin, face going slack for a moment in surprise. “Jesus Christ. You really _ are _ different.”

“Goodbye, Anne.” There was nothing left to say, so he spun and walked down the sand. 

Her gaze burned into his back until he veered to walk into town, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

* * *

The days after Anne Bonny and the_ William _ sailed away dragged.

During that time, James contemplated his current circumstances. He had no control whether Silver responded, but he did have command over his life and how he lived it. 

Making a decision to pull himself off the metaphorical ground was not difficult, though following through with the steps to do so were more daunting. 

He stopped drinking altogether, except for watered wine when there remained no other alternative. Over-imbibing muddled his thoughts and drew him to make rash, emotion-laden decisions while at the same time fouling his health and sleep patterns.

He ate at mealtimes, though his appetite still bordered on the minimal. Meals had become an afterthought, a nuisance even after Savannah, and his energy often lagged from his poor habits. 

He purchased new clothing. Nothing that stood out, but simple, well-tailored trousers, shirts, and a new long coat of brown stitched leather he couldn’t comfortably wear in the heat but bought anyway because it felt _ right _. He’d not had any new clothes for quite a long time. A mirror followed, as well as a wash basin, cloths, a large ewer for his room, and a shaving knife. Personal grooming, though indulgent, was something he used to pride himself on, a small vanity left over from his time in the navy when neatness was required he had let go. Though he kept his hair long, falling to beneath his shoulders, he washed and trimmed it neatly, along with his beard, which he narrowed down to his mustache and his chin, leaving his cheeks clean and smooth. Minimal facial hair took ten years off of him, but that could also have stemmed from his changed habits. 

He smiled now, thinking of when he had first seen Thomas with his beard in London. A long voyage and an unfortunate loss of his knife led to the thing in the first place, but when Thomas had seen it, his reaction precluded any chance of James shaving it. 

They had not left the bedroom for two days.

No one in Santo Domingo or anywhere on the island had ever seen him without a full, scraggly, long beard on his face, and so it seemed safe to assume he would not be recognized unless he made it a point to do so.

When he peered in the reflective glass, he barely recognized himself. Not quite James McGraw (hair with too many white strands, and a little too wild), definitely not Captain Flint (hair too long, face too smooth), he looked like someone new, and he found that was the way he wanted it. He _ needed _ it. 

* * *

It took nearly two months until his message bore fruit.


	7. Chapter 7

_ How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

James grunted as he pulled, the coarse fibers of the rope cutting into his fingers as sweat rolled freely down his back and into the waistband of his trousers. 

“Pull!” the ship’s bosun bellowed, the cords on his weathered, tattooed neck standing out at the strain. 

Three meters more and they would have it. The ship behind him groaned as it tilted toward starboard, exposing its barnacled hull. The men surged forward again. And again. And again, until finally the four men working James’ rope could wrap it about the stout palm and loop it through the large iron pulley on the other side. Once locked into place, James fell back with the group, his chest heaving. He leaned down to put his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

The sun beat down on his exposed shoulders, his shirt discarded long ago. Feeling his age, he straightened with a curse, making a valiant effort not to groan out loud as his back popped and protested. His eyes fell shut, and he craned his face to the sunlight, searching for the breeze whipping the tops of the palm trees. Dark, threatening clouds rolled in from the south, signalling there would be a storm tonight. A big one. A ship killer.

James heard him before he saw him. Even on the beach, Silver’s distinctive thumping gait gave him away. He kept his eyes closed and told himself it was to allow Silver his element of surprise, such as it was, instead of a bid to calm his heart that tried to beat through his chest. 

When Silver said nothing, James finally opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder in his direction. 

John Silver looked as if he had been dragged through Hell, and James’ heart promptly dropped into his boots.

Oh, Silver’s clothes were neat, as much as a pirate’s could be, his hair pulled back into a tight tail at the nape of his neck, his beard clipped shorter than he’d last seen, but it was his eyes that told the story. Like he had looked on Skeleton Island, but worse.

Haunted and unhappy, with shockingly dark smudges under his eyes, Silver blinked back at him, his gaze wary. 

For a long time, James had pictured what would happen if he ever saw Silver face to face again. Many scenarios had graced his imagination, from violent to scathing to neutral, but John Silver’s exhaustion and sadness were never part of them. 

“You came.” Fingernails pressed into the palm of James’ hand until it burned.

A muscle jumped in Silver’s jaw and he gave a bitter smile. “That is what you wanted, wasn’t it? Can’t think of why else you would send a message like that.”

_ You wouldn’t. And that is my fault. All of it. _“I needed to see you, yes.”

“Well, I’m here.” Silver shrugged. 

When Silver offered no more information, did not even ask how James came to be there in the first place, James swiped his hand over his face and neck. 

“Not here. Can we…?” 

James gestured off to his right, not toward anywhere in particular, just away from here. He did not want to have this conversation on the beach under the sun.

Silver’s lips pressed thin, and he nodded once. “Tonight, though. I have business.”

James sighed. This was not going as he had hoped, but honestly he did not know what he had expected. He bent over to pick up his shirt, and when he straightened, Silver’s gaze snapped up to his, a shadow of something behind his eyes gone in an instant. 

“Meet me at the tavern on Calle de Magdalena. 10 o’clock,” said James.

Expression inscrutable, Silver gave a clipped nod before he turned and stalked off toward a tent full of pirates on the far side of the beach.

* * *

Later, when Silver walked through the door of the tavern, the world narrowed. James had sat in the back (he should truly carve his name in the seat to proclaim ownership over it at this point) for nearly an hour now, and though Silver arrived on time, James’ nerves were flayed raw from his restlessness. 

He had eaten, nevertheless his stomach wanted to protest as he considered the conversation he was about to have. It amused him darkly he had only planned as far as getting Silver to Santo Domingo, but had not thought past his arrival. He supposed some part of him did not believe it would ever happen.

Still undecided on what he wished to say, he ran out of time as soon as Silver showed.

Silver spotted him immediately. Water dripped from his hair, his face shiny with moisture, and his clothes hung heavily on his frame. 

James swallowed at the sight of the wet linen fabric clinging to Silver’s skin. He took a drink from his cup to distract himself.

A grimace of disgust flitted over Silvers’ expression as he sat with a weighty thump across from James, his trousers and dark coat squelching around him. 

“Christ. This storm is a ship killer.” He reached over the table top and grabbed the bottle of watered wine James had barely touched, dripping rain water on the wood. He took a deep guzzle, closing his eyes in relief before pulling it away and giving it a revolted glare, and then he set it down with a thunk. 

James tried not to react to the familiarity or the almost comical expression of disgust on Silver’s face.

The silence drew out, fascinating in the middle of a crowded room full of sailors and whores and townspeople seeking refuge from the squall outside, had James been thinking about it in such a way. It bloomed and surrounded them, encapsulating their heat, their breathing, drowning all else.

Though it did not seem possible, Silver seemed even more tired than he had been earlier in the afternoon, and the longer they sat, the more details James noticed. A few strands of white marring the glossy dark brown of Silver’s hair. The deeper lines around his eyes and the vertical ones between his brows. A fine, pale scar running from under his hairline to directly over his left eye.

And still Silver had not looked James in the face.

“Why are you here on this island?” Silver asked, eyes finally flicking up, heavy with the question, along with something darker. 

“It’s just another place.” An answer without satisfaction, and it showed in Silver’s expression, but he didn’t press. Yet.

“I suppose it is.”

“You sail the_ Hispaniola.” _ James could not keep the slight waspish note out of his tone, the bitterness of how he and Silver parted suddenly sour like a lemon on his tongue. The visions had stopped short of his last conversation with Silver, of Skeleton Island and Silver’s betrayal, and in this moment he felt gratitude for such small mercies. He swallowed from his cup, trying to wash the sourness away.

But the_ Hispaniola _ — a magnificent ship in the hands of a capable captain, was a menace of the sea in the hands of an experienced pirate such as Silver, and that was what he was now, a skillful, successful pirate, if one could believe all the whispers and secondhand stories. The _ Hispaniola _ would be a crown jewel of conquest, and Silver, of all people, sailed her. Obviously, his skills had improved since last they met.

“Yes. She’s sturdy and reliable. A fine ship.”

Not just sturdy and reliable, a brilliant work of shipbuilding, meant to be an efficient, fast, domineering vessel on the open sea. James barely restrained himself from snorting in disbelief at Silver’s choice in words. “Intimidating, more like.”

“That, too.” Silver quirked a ghost of a smile before it disappeared as if it never was. “It helps. Less killing that way, if you can get a prize to roll over just by raising your colors. But you already knew that.” 

Such was the manner of piracy—intimidation, violence, never ending bloodshed, adrenaline to feed the yawning need of adrenaline addicts and greedy scoundrels alike.

And James did know what John meant. He had used the tactic himself often enough. A small part of James itched yet for the life on the account, and it was like a wound not healed. The desire to conquer and dominate still sung in his veins, a dim buzzing that he pointedly ignored every single day, because truly, pirating was not something he wanted again, or ever wanted if the truth was told. Too much pain and loss there, too likely he would lose himself to the violence. And yet his life as Flint had worked its way into his bones and ruined him forever in many ways.

Silver watched this play over James’ face, eyes flitting before settling somewhere over James’ shoulder, but did not comment. 

James took the opportunity to observe him in the dim light. 

_ Wretched._

It was the only term that came to mind for how Silver looked, and the word cut across James’ heart like a dagger, razor sharp.

“It is treacherous out there.” James winced at his choice of words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but Silver did not seem to notice.

Silver took another drink from the bottle and grimaced again. He waved over a barmaid and asked for a rum before he answered. “No more than usual.”

Bravado. As much as gold, a pirate’s currency.

“Not what I hear.”

“And what do you hear?”

“There is a new player. A dangerous one.” The buzz about Scott had not diminished over the past two months. In fact, it had elevated significantly. He had handily snared both Greenwood and Hiram Noland within days of each other with spectacular finesse, without a single fatality with the former and triumphing after a bloody, mismatched battle at sea with the latter. All the blood had been on Noland’s end, with Noland ending up skewered at the tip of Scott’s sword. 

A pause when the barmaid brought Silver’s rum over. Silver took a deep drink and set his mug down nearly empty and then stared as if trying to see through James’ skin. “I have managed so far.” He leaned forward, gaze intense. “Why am I here, Captain?” 

James tried not to react to the honorific. “I have something I need to talk to you about.” Under his ribs, his heart beat a jackrabbit’s rhythm.

Silver’s expression remain unchanged. “Well, I should hope I did not come all this way just for us to stare at one another,” he said, tone wry.

This was the moment, and James remained unsure how he wished to approach all on his mind. He decided on straightforward. “I wanted to tell you you were right.”

“Right? About what?” Silver’s expression bled into wariness.

“That I would have let the world around me burn to the ground to get what I wanted. Nothing and no one would have been left standing.” _ Including Madi. Including you. _ “There is not much I regret in being a pirate. I thought I would, eventually.“ James shrugged. “But mostly, it has not come. I do not rue trying to bring England down in flames or trying to assure a better future for Nassau and pirates alike. I only regret a few things.” His thumb rubbed over his knuckles, over and over, and he cleared his throat. “Killing Gates. Not stopping Miranda from coming to Charles Town with me. And you.”

Silver’s lips parted and his expression clouded. “You regret… _ me _.”

James shook his head, knowing how his words did not adequately convey what he meant. “I regret dragging you into it all. Once we located the gold, I should have set you to shore somewhere far away and left you behind.”

Silver sat back, eyebrows coming together, and the vertical lines between them deepened. 

“What the hell?“ An indignant sound came from Silver’s throat. “I don’t know what you think of me, but you should appreciate by now I would not have been so easily put aside. Had you done such a thing, I would have followed, found a way.”

“You hate the sea. You still hate it.”

Nonplussed at James’ sidestep, Silver blinked at him for several seconds. “Yes.”

“And now you are a pirate.”

Silver frowned at his obviousness, his eyes narrowing. “What are you getting at?”

“Who drug you there, into the account where you ended up doing something you abhor, something that makes you miserable?”

“You did not have that much control over my decisions.”

“Didn’t I?”

Silver kept silent.

“Instead, you intrigued me. And I let my weakness in that obscure my better judgment.”

Comprehension bloomed behind Silver’s eyes, right before his nostrils flared and he bared his teeth in an ugly snarl. 

“Wait a minute. Is _ this _ why you called me here? To assuage your belated guilt? To make everything that happened all about you again? Fuck you. After all this time, you still believe you believe you are the only one who bears tragedy like a black mark on his soul.” Silver made a strangled noise, his face flushed with anger, eyes afire as he leant forward over the table again. “I sacrificed _everything, _short of my own life, for that crew, for you,” he growled. “We all suffered under the auspices of your bloody unwinnable war and your ambitions, every one of us, in the worst possible way.”

It stung to hear those words, and the urge to sting back warred with the desire to justify his actions. “This is not about me. And I honestly do not know how much damage I have done, though I know I have done it,” James said, defensive. “You shared nothing of yourself that was true. You told me as much on the bluffs.” But Silver did, whether he knew it or not. James had seen it, relived their past, saw it before his eyes sitting across from him.

A bitter scoff. “Why would I? When it was clear your story was more important than anyone else’s, especially mine.”

“That is not true.” James struggled to stay calm and not spew back vitriol to match or rival Silver’s. He pressed his knuckles against his thigh.

“It is,” Silver spat out. “And what, exactly did I walk through Hell for? This body that on the regular fails me? A lost chance with... Lost chances because once I had sailed with you, fought with you, bled with you, knew you, and nothing or no one else could ever measure up, no matter what lies I told myself. Because that is the rub, is it not? I can lie to everyone else, but not to myself for very long.”

_ No one else could ever measure up. _

The words hung in the air like smoke.

James blinked. “What did—”

The look on Silver’s face stopped him from finishing his question.

“We need to finish this elsewhere. This is not the place,” James said instead.

Silver raised a brow. “I should think a public venue such as this, full of witnesses would be exactly the place.” His tone cut and his teeth shone white in a feral smile through his tense lips. 

“You are still a shit.” James rose, pulling on his coat, and peered down at Silver. “Come.” Silver narrowed his eyes and looked like he wanted to bite back, but instead, he stood, pushing up off the table with the palms of his hands, his leg thumping against the floor.

They pushed their way through the crowd, James flexing his wrists and rubbing the skin of his knuckles as he led the way out.

Outside, the rain pelted the buildings with unrelenting fury, sheets of wet coming on the tail of sharp gusts of wind. They stepped onto the street near the corner of the building as two men approached the tavern— one tall, head bent against the onslaught, the other short, posture ramrod straight.

A drop of icy rain trickled down the back of James’ shirt, and he shivered.

“You think he’ll be here, in plain sight?”

“I think Long John Silver came here to this island for a reason,” the taller one said. “It is a logical conclusion that if he does not show himself at one of the local establishments, someone will have recognized him and lead us in the correct direction.”

A cold chill of fear ran through James.

“Scott,” Silver hissed behind him. 

There were only seconds before they would look up and see them both hovering under the eaves, listening.

“Hard to miss a man with an iron leg, I agree,” his companion nodded with a laugh.

“Fuck,” Silver growled and James turned around, heart pounding as he shoved Silver headlong into the alley beyond the light from the windows.

Of all the fucking strokes of piss poor luck to bring Captain Scott here, tonight, to this tavern with both James and Silver together ripe for the taking. Jesus Christ, damn his lack of fortune! 

They fled, as best as Silver could, until James slowed down, hoping to sort this out in his head, while at the same time get Silver as far away as he could. Instead, Silver’s solid weight slammed into him from behind, crashing them both against the stone wall of a nearby building, knocking the breath from James’ lungs in surprise.

“You led me here,” Silver growled, arm held against James’ shoulder blades. “You mean to get me hanged.” He vibrated with fury, good knee pressing sharply into the back of James’ thigh, pinning him, though they both knew James could twist free if he truly tried. Silver’s missing leg would always be his weakness, a pivot point where he could easily be unbalanced, but in his rage Silver forgot it all.

James’ cheek scraped against the rough stone wall, but he did not resist. “No. That is not true.”

Silver shoved at James and pain flared over his abused skin. 

“You’re lying,” Silver hissed. “Scott is looking for me. He knew I would be here.” He stepped closer, mouth next to James’ ear, deadly quiet. “I should slit your throat.”

The irony in all of this was not lost on James. Once, long ago, James was much as Silver was now. Angry. Suspicious. Seeking out reasons to show his dominance. Angry. Always angry. These things still simmered under the surface of James’ skin, but were easier to manage away from the account. For Silver, a breath in the wrong direction sent him spiraling into the violence. It made him volatile. It made him unpredictable. 

James shuddered, the allure of Silver’s danger licking like flames in his belly. He only hoped Silver assumed it was born of fear and not from where it truly stemmed. It would not help the situation for Silver to know every inch of James throbbed with desire.

There must have been a hitch in his breath or a flex of muscle to give him away because Silver stilled as if time stopped.

“The fuck?” he whispered, mouth still agonizingly close to James’ ear. James squeezed his eyes shut and willed his body into submission, trying to bite back a groan threatening to escape as Silver moved his weight behind him.

He swallowed. “I didn’t know. I swear it,” he said, his voice rough.

Silver, quiet for once, shifted again, this time with deliberate purpose, and James knew his sharp inhale gave him away, for in an instant, SIlver had staggered backward and the rain pelted James’ back once more. 

“The fuck?” Silver repeated, more to himself, James thought. He did not turn around, instead leaning on the stone wall for support, knees watery.

The silence drew out.

“Turn and face me,” Silver said, his tone difficult to read as the blood roared in James’ ears.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, he opened his eyes and spun slowly, grateful for the shadows, hoping they would obscure the clear evidence of his arousal.

He had not thought about how Silver’s proximity would affect him, how his own body would betray him with the slightest touch, and this had been much more than a simple reaction.

Darkness shrouded Silver’s face, but his stance spoke volumes. Tense, combative, hands curled into tight fists, James felt the violence and confusion rolling off him like a wave.

“What is this?” The rain did nothing to mute the waver in Silver’s voice. “Is this a… trick? Some sort of game—?”

Insulted, James’ lip curled. “I do not play games.”

“The fuck you don’t,” Silver responded, whip-quick and brutal. “Why am I really here?”

James had not answered that question to anyone’s satisfaction, but they could not do this here. Not in some back alley in the pouring rain. “Can we just go—?”

“Why am I here?” Silver bellowed. The words reverberated off the stone walls.

James straightened and squared his shoulders, a remnant of his days in the navy and as Flint, standing proud in the face of danger, because James was not stupid. Silver teetered on the edge of something darker than yelling in a Santo Domingo alley. 

His breath was difficult to come by. “I needed to know if it was real.”

“Real. What are you talking about?”

“It’s difficult to explain.”

Silver took a threatening step. “Try to enlighten me, if you would.”

James had to avert his eyes, the harsh rain soaking through Silver’s white shirt, causing it to cling to him, showing every line, even in the dim lamplight. The hollow between his clavicles collected water and all James wanted to do was to lick it away and see if he tasted of the sky. He swallowed. 

Silver stepped forward again, his face now partially illuminated by a nearby street lamp, contorted in anger. James felt the heat of him, and oh how he wanted to soak it in, to touch, but he kept his hands at his sides.

“A woman, a… I don’t know what she is, exactly. A sorceress, a seer, witch, whatever she is, she has magic and—”

Silver snorted, incredulous. “Magic,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head before he ran his palm over his hair and looked to the sky as if seeking guidance. 

James pressed on. “She gave me something, a charm, to help me see into my past.” He trailed off then, knowing how ridiculous his explanation sounded, not knowing what else to say but the truth, all lies unreachable in his agitation.

Silver hung his head for a few seconds and then shook it slowly. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. Have you lost your goddamned mind, Flint?”

When James failed to answer, because he honestly did not know how to respond, Silver made a strangled noise. Maybe he _ had _ lost his mind. It felt like it, here, having this conversation. 

“And what? What exactly did you think you saw?” asked Silver.

“You.” 

“Me.”

“Yes, you. Always you.” James’ voice cracked. He could not stop it and it gave him away.

Silver stepped back as if struck, back into the darkness, and his chest heaved once. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, and though James could not see his face, he could hear the disbelief and something else— fear? anguish?— threaded through his voice.

“Silver, I—” James started and moved forward, but halted when Silver held up a hand.

“No.” The hand trembled. Water dripped off his fingertips. James watched a drop roll back into the gaping cuff of Silver’s sleeve. “_ No.” _ The fingers curled and dropped to his side as Silver whirled away, stalking off into the night, his uneven gait accentuating the tension in his frame. 

James let him go, watching him retreat down the darkened street.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: Rough, angry consensual sex ahead!

_ What is divine deserves our affection because it is good; what is human deserves our affection because it is like us. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

He walked for an hour, maybe two, the disastrous meeting with Silver heavy on his mind, but the rain pounded so hard it finally pushed him home after a steady circuitous route. Soaked to the bone and exhausted both mentally and physically, he stood just inside the closed door, water puddling at his feet. A gust of air seeped in through an uneven seam in the windowsill and the room was cool, cooler than it had been in a long time. 

It just about suited James’ mood. 

He solved little on his traverse around the town. Looking back over the night, he did not know if the situation could have gone any differently. Perhaps he should have made other choices, but his fatigued mind would not provide the answer what those might have been. 

Was he to grovel? To beg forgiveness when Silver had much to answer for himself? Or perhaps he should have told Silver right away what happened to Thomas, to _ them _in Savannah, dragging it all into the open to reassure Silver James did not want to be on the account again and had no ambition to restart a war he cared nothing about anymore. James frowned at himself, a stab of guilt twisting in his gut for thinking of using Thomas’ memory in such a way. 

With a sigh, his stomach in knots, he rubbed a knuckle hard along his brow bone, the sharp pain as he forced the tension to release centering him a bit. 

The storm kept the noise muted outside— no revelers in the dark, no half-heard conversations filtering through the window and the walls. The cooper downstairs had long since closed shop, his home next door, and so James was alone. He had never felt it more profoundly than right now.

He lit a sole candle and set it on the windowsill, its wavering light casting deep shadows as he lowered himself in his single chair. Working the boots and socks off his feet, he let his gaze roam around the space, dispassionately eyeing his meager belongings. A small wooden trunk full of his clothes, his pistols, and a few personal mementos left over from his time as Captain Flint sat at the end of his bed, a short bookshelf with his collection of books, including a copy of _ Meditations _ he had found in a market in Tortuga, of all places, on his way to Santo Domingo _ . _ It leaned against the far wall. He’d bought it as a tribute to Thomas, the original lost with the _ Walrus _, and he had not opened it once. But he knew it was there, and that was enough.

Paltry enough possessions considering the length of his life and his experiences. Easy to pack up at a moment’s notice and vacate this godforsaken shithole of a town. Maradona would surely welcome James on his ship. If he worked for his passage, perhaps he could end up in one of the fishing villages in Mexico Maradona extolled so many times. 

Maybe he should. Maybe he should take his stash of coin and—

A sharp knock on the door halted his meandering train of thought mid-sentence.

James turned slowly to stare at it, his stomach flipping. He waited, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him, but the knock came again, along with a rough, “Captain. I know you’re in there.”

A wry smile flickered over James’ lips as he remembered the many times Silver had done much the same on board the_ Walrus _or the Spanish galleon, when he bothered to knock at all. 

When he opened the door, Silver raised his head, hair flattened against his skull and dripping in fat droplets on the wood planks of the floorboards. His eyes were shadowed and haunted, his mouth a thin line.

“How did you find me here?” asked James.

Silver flashed a humorless smile. “I followed you.”

“You…” Christ, James had not stopped walking the entire time. His gaze flicked down to Silver’s abused leg and he felt a twinge of sympathy. “Why?”

Silver let out a choked laugh, his expression contorting into something between anger and confusion as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “I honestly don’t know.”

James noticed how Silver listed to his right, and he moved back and away from the doorway.

Silver hesitated before stepping over the threshold and hobbling to the middle of the room. The crackling of tension between them arced through the air, setting James’ teeth on edge and raising the hair on his arms. He shut the door and Silver stared at nothing, raw emotions warring on his face. 

“Where is he?”

A thread of sorrow twisted through James, and he cleared his throat against it. 

“He’s dead.” Thomas Hamilton was dead. He had not said the words aloud yet to anyone,and Silver was the first to hear them. No one here knew of Thomas, and it was not as if there was anyone left to tell. 

Silver looked over his shoulder, eyes scathing. “What did you do?”

James sucked a shocked breath and icy, indignant anger flashed through his chest. “Fuck you.”

Silver gave a bitter laugh and hunched forward, his profile hard and unrelenting. “Are you telling me you had nothing to do with it?”

“Of course I didn’t,” James hissed, fury bubbling hot under his skin, evaporating the sorrow and turning his emotions ugly. He bared his teeth. “And fuck you again for thinking I could have. You know how I—”

“I know no such thing anymore,” Silver interrupted, slowly pivoting around, his head cocked to the side, watching James’ reaction. “I know what you are capable of. I have seen it with my own eyes. If you wanted to escape Oglethorpe and that damned plantation, I have no doubt you would have done anything to make it happen.”

Underneath the white-hot anger lay the sting of Silver’s words. “What you must think of me to envision me like this. Just as you also assume I would bring you to this island to ensnare you in a trap for a bloody pirate hunter, of all things.” James sneered, the rage easily within reach now, and he pulled at it toward him and held it close. 

He narrowed his eyes, his common sense shoved aside. 

“And how fares Madi? Did she find someone who would not betray her, someone she could trust not to lie to her again, and leave you for him, or did she just finally conclude what you already knew— that she was not enough for you? Because she wasn’t, was she? Like I told you. Like I fucking _ warned _ you.” James words cut Silver short, stiffening his spine and rocking him back on his heel, as he knew they would. Venom flowed from James’ mouth in the form of words and Silver had done this, released the monster he worked so hard to lock down tight. 

Goddamn him. 

Prepared for Silver’s surge of rage, half intending to get him there, to this point of violence, because it was so much easier than what churned inside his chest alongside the affronted anger and vitriol Silver’s accusations sparked. 

Fists and blood and brutality James knew how to deal with. This... _ thing _, this amalgam of complex emotions he had for Silver now, it had him tangled into knots. He both hated it and craved it. 

James shifted a foot to stabilize himself as Silver came at him, fist swinging. The punch clipped James on the jaw, snapping his head back a split second before Silver barrelled into his torso, fatigue forgotten as they both hurtled towards the door, James slamming against it. His skull knocked into the frame, and the breath left his lungs in a rush, crushed under the push of Silver’s broad shoulder. The weight lifted and long fingers wrapped around James’ neck like a vise, the thick metal rings pinching. Silver’s body pressed along James’ from chest to knee, pinning him in place. Aggression rippled through them both, a live thing that threatened to rage out of control.

“Shut up,” Silver hissed, fury making him a sight to behold— eyes burning, teeth bared, skin flushed, though his hair stuck in crazy wet whorls around his face. “Don’t you say another fucking word, you son of a bitch.”

James shivered, the damp of their rain-soaked linen clothing rubbing uncomfortably everywhere it touched, but indignation and righteous anger at Silver’s insinuation simmered in his gut. 

“Fuck. You.” 

Their warm breath mingled between them, their lips only a few scant inches apart, and Silver vibrated.

This was not the same Silver he knew. Forged from the death and greed and destruction of piracy, this Silver radiated power and violence. James recognized himself in John’s rage, and though he should have felt at least a lick of fear, instead a tremor of thrilled anticipation shook him to the core.

As if someone had pulled a plug from a bath, the hostility bled out of James in a slow release of tension. He could not withstand Silver’s nearness, the heat seeping through their clothes, their chests pressed together. Silver took his breath away, and he succumbed with a sigh, relaxing his frame enough to shift and feel Silver’s body against him, all of him.

He wanted this, whatever it ended up to be. 

In the unsteady, weak light of the candle, James watched Silver’s eyes darken further, pupils expanding to eclipse the blue, and how they flickered all over James’ face, pausing overlong on his mouth. Silver’s breathing turned erratic.

James knew risk. He stood on the edge of a precipice somewhere between dying by this man’s hand and something equally profound. He recognized the danger, and yet he raised his arm to curl his fingers around Silver’s bare wrist. Innocent enough save for how gently he did it, how he ran his thumb along the damp exposed skin. 

Just once. 

An invitation.

“Shut up,” Silver whispered hoarsely, right before he crushed his mouth to James’, clacking teeth together, bruising. His fingers tightened around James’ throat and James gasped for breath, opening for Silver, who took full advantage and swiped his tongue against James’ with a brutal lack of finesse.

James tried to steal ragged breaths through his nose, but Silver pushed into him, sucking at his tongue, licking into him in a ruthless onslaught. Tightening the grasp on his neck, Silver’s hold made it difficult to draw in air, and James felt lightheaded, the scarcity of breath and surge of valuable blood rushing toward his belly and his groin where his erection ached making sparkles dance along the edge of his vision. When Silver freed him, it was only to grab him roughly by the shoulder, squeezing with an iron grip and James groaned, the pain mingling with harsh arousal, and his lungs burned.

Their mouths and tongues slid against each other, punishing, consuming. James curled fingers into Silver’s coat and the leather creaked, his other hand reaching up to gather the sodden fabric of Silver’s shirt. When he did, however, Silver broke away and they both gasped for air, lungs burning, lips swollen and wet. James tasted the copper rich tang of blood.

This was both better and worse than he ever imagined. 

The aggression in Silver reigned, his jaw clenched and nostrils flared as it controlled him, and he manhandled James around until his thighs bumped against the desk, knocking the chair aside. With no hesitation, he spun James so he faced away from him and shoved his hand through James’ hair, twisting it around his hand, pulling until James’ back bowed and his eyes watered. It stung. God, it stung. One hand gripped his shoulder and Silver’s hot breath ghosted over James’ cheek. The rough bristles of their beards tangled. 

Perfect. So perfect. Fierce, curling desire pooled low in James’ belly.

“This? Is this what you want, _ Captain _?” Silver’s voice was wild and dangerous. 

James gasped, the response on his tongue dissolving in a haze of lust when Silver let go of his shoulder to rub a palm over his crotch in a rough pull. 

“Fuck. It _ is _.” Even as through Silver’s anger, the note of wonder was hard to miss as he growled and shoved James forward, bending him at the waist. James had to throw his hands out to keep his face from smashing against the wood or the wall. Then Silver released his hair and yanked at his hips, pulling him back into his own, and he ground against his backside.

_ Yesyesyesyes _

James let out a garbled groan, because fuck, Silver’s arousal was hard and hot and pressing in just the right place. He cursed as Silver’s fingers dug bruises into his hips. 

“C’mon.” James threw a challenging glare over his shoulder. “That all you’ve got?” By God, James was greedy to the depths of his soul, and he wanted _ more. _ He was not above provoking John into giving it to him.

Silver growled and reached around to wrench off James’ belt, the stitching on the leather pulling at the skin of his stomach hard and fast enough to burn, Silver tugging at the buttons and fabric of his trousers until they fell to the floor and James stood exposed to the air and Silver’s gaze. Goosebumps rose on the flesh of his thighs when a cool draft gusted through the room.

Silver shrugged out of his coat, tossing it in a damp heap and then hesitated, running his palm over James skin none too gently, the calluses on his fingers rough and unforgiving. Once, twice over the mound of his arse, and then the pressure lifted as Silver spit into his hand, the other still pushing him down, keeping him bent over, his cock pressed into the wood, the edge of the desk catching him at the base. He grunted, but managed to wriggle enough to kick out of the trousers around his feet and widen his stance. He hummed, impatient, his breath harsh in his own ears. 

Silver pushed a wet finger into James, all the way inside with no preamble, no sweet declarations, no patient working of the muscle. It stung and James bucked against it, gasping, his body naturally resisting. No one had been inside of him a very long time, since Thomas in London, and God, it burned. 

They both stilled, Silver giving him the grace of a minute to let James adjust to the intrusion before he slowly began to work James loose, the sounds in the room desperate and filthy. Pain blurred slowly into pleasure, and James’ cock, partially softened, began to harden again.

Silver pushed another finger in, too early, and James shook. 

“Fuck. You’re tight.” Silver rutted against James’ thigh each time he pressed inside. James wanted to reach back and grab him, encourage him to continue, but he had to keep his hands where they held him steady or he would bash his head on the wall.

“In the drawer,” he gasped instead.

The fingers withdrew in one swift motion, and James moaned at the loss, the emptiness overwhelming him, as Silver first quickly undid his own trousers, freeing himself with a soft grunt of relief. Then, he leaned over to fumble through the desk until he pulled out the small pewter bottle of oil. Silver had taken his hands off him, but pressed against his leg as he searched, his shaft hot and solid against James’ thigh, the slick of precome wet along his skin. John’s warm, uneven breath fanned on his neck. Twisting the cork out, Silver set the container on the surface where James could see it. 

“You,” he ordered, and then shifted to allow James to use one hand, his other laid flat against the wall in front of his face for balance. James lifted and tipped the bottle over his fingers with awkward imprecision, over doing it but coating them enough with the oil, then he reached behind himself.

With an arch of his spine, he rubbed over the rim first, pushing gently to stretch the muscle before breaching himself with two fingers, conscious of Silver’s eyes on him, his breathing ragged as he tried to relax. He had not touched himself like this in so long, but fuck, it felt good as he massaged and pressed around the outside of his hole in circular motions, dipping in and out with the tips of his fingers and then rubbing along the inside pressing outward, widening, stretching. A flutter in the ring of muscle went straight through to the center of his belly, and mist of perspiration broke out over his face and back, and he was on fire, burning all over from head to toe.

“Oh my God,” Silver rasped while he watched, hands tight, bruising, on James’ hips. 

James’ lips parted, the gusts of his breath fanning the strands of hair that fell over his face. He worked himself open until he could slip in a third finger, but at this angle, he struggled to draw any substantial pleasure. In and out, over and over, up to the second knuckle, but not nearly as deep as he needed, and probably much too fast, James hips began to twitch back to fuck himself on his fingers, sweat sliding down his spine. It was a knife’s edge, a fine line between pleasure and frustration, and James grit his teeth against it.

Silver snapped out of his daze and grabbed James’ wrist, pulling the digits out and then pinning his hand down. “Enough,” he growled before letting go to press a palm on James’ back, flattening him chest to desk. 

A shudder ran through him, straight to his erection and into his bollocks at Silver’s tone. 

The pressure of Silver’s cock against his hole made James’ own twitch in anticipation and his fingers curled against the wood. “C’mon,” he breathed, jaw clenched.

As Silver pushed inside, waiting for barely a moment for him to adjust, James’ eyes watered and the muscles in his arms burned with strain. At some point, Silver had slicked himself well with the oil and the inexorable press of Silver’s shaft spread James wide, filling him. It was all James needed, and he bit back a cry of relief.

Silver panted above him as if he had run miles, and the hand at his shoulder blades let up to grip his other hip again. 

The stretch hurt, but James bore down, forcing himself to relax, but it helped. He had shamefully forgotten how this felt, the fullness and the intensity of it all. But God, how he had missed it. Silver slid all the way home until his bollocks were seated against James’ backside and they both groaned. 

James struggled to speak. “Fuck, it’s so... you are so…” 

Silver pulled out and pressed forward in a steady, strong slide. James grunted and bit his lip. 

Once more out and in, and James’ scalp stung as Silver hauled him up by the hair one more time, his back flush to Silver’s chest, their clothing too much of a barrier, their shirts crumpled between them. Silver pumped hard twice, and his voice shook when he spoke, still colored with anger. “You _ knew _ I would come if you gave Bonny that message. You knew and you wanted me here, and here I am, fucking you.” He slammed in again and James moaned, the sound broken and raw, because Silver’s cock felt so fucking amazing inside of him and he wanted it to last forever. “Goddamn you for knowing I would come,” Silver growled in James’ ear and then pressed his forehead into James’ shoulder with a shuddering breath, “and goddamn you for feeling so fucking perfect around me.” 

Over and over he fucked into James in a punishing cadence, keeping James half bent over, chest pressed to back, his cock pulling across the spot inside that made James gasp, until they both shook with the effort. James ached, his cock throbbing, leaking over the surface of the desk in thin glistening strands, but he refused to touch himself, needing to make this last, and putting his hand on his erection would end this all too quickly. 

Silver paused, tightening his grip in James’ hair, and James winced again at the sharp sting. That was when the trembling started, and James’ breath caught in his throat as Silver quaked against him.

“Flint. Ah, _ God _, Flint. What…?” Silver panted. “What are we…?” James stilled, his heart tripping at the waver in Silver’s voice. 

Pushing up to free his hands, James turned, dislodging Silver from his hair and his body to face him, and Silver allowed it, stepping back. 

Silver looked lost, his countenance open and wrecked.

_ Oh. Oh God. _Concern warred with a small bit of guilty pride that James had brought him to this, took him apart and laid him bare. 

James knew what it was like to feel untethered and broken and raw with a need you do not know how to name. This was what James saw in John and now it was time to put him back together again.

James moved Silver with a gentle push down on the narrow bed, where he landed with a wince, his left leg banging against the frame. Lost did not describe Silver with adequacy. Trousers rucked down his lean thighs, cock stiff and slick with oil, ruddy and curved over his belly still covered with his shirt. Moisture beaded at the base of his neck, along his clavicle, the tip of his erection. Even mostly dressed, Silver looked like a master’s painting, glistening and perfect in the flickering candlelight. He watched James, gaze wary now, hands pushing himself up to sitting. “Captain, what—?”

“Don’t call me that,” James whispered and reached for his own collar, pulling his shirt up and over his head to let it fall to the floor in a wet pile. Silver froze, his lips parting in a soft exhale of surprise, eyes wide and hungry roaming over James’ body, but free of his previous anger.

Letting Silver look his fill, James kneeled next to him and ran a hand up his own thigh before he threw his leg over Silver’s lap and straddled him, reaching to position him again at his entrance, and without waiting, sank down.

The breath stuttered out of Silver’s lungs in a whoosh and he moaned, hands scrabbling at James’ thighs, eyes rolling back in his head. “Oh fuck. Oh _ God _.”

“We are this. Right here. Right now. Nothing else,” James said, leaning forward to place a hand on the center of Silver’s chest to steady himself as he rose slowly and lowered himself again. “Please, if this is to be all there is, just… just let me have it,“ he rasped. His eyes closing and his head falling back, he raked his fingers over his scalp, freeing the last of his hair from its tie, pulling it off his face and neck and letting it fall in damp strands over his shoulders. He bit his lip when Silver’s hands moved up to his hips, a palm sliding up and over his ribs.

“God, look at you,” Silver breathed in awe, and James opened his eyes to meet Silver’s, but found Silver’s gaze travelled over James’ chest, his torso. Silver’s brow furrowed and pressed his hand on James’ skin. It burned like a brand. “Too thin.” 

James choked out a half-laugh, which brought Silver’s eyes to his. The transformation of his expression happened in that moment, right in front of James as he rocked gently in Silver’s lap. Muscles moved and shifted under Silver’s skin, and he reached for James at the same moment James leaned down. Their mouths connected, more generous this time than the last, with a soft, lavish glide of lips and tongue. Silver kissed him deep and wet, the sensual curl of his tongue sliding, slipping along James’ teeth, his tongue, his lips. Silver carded his fingers through James’ hair, with a gentle grip, tracing James’ cheek, his neck. He pressed a thumb to James’ racing pulse. James’ lips tingled.

“Look at you,” Silver repeated, no anger remaining, voice thick against James’ mouth, eyes glazed. James started moving in earnest then, using his thigh muscles and hips to lift and fall heavily in undulating figure eights, making sure Silver reached deep inside him, carving a space for himself that extended far beyond this act. Heads angling, their kissing turned to the thrust of tongues, mimicking the sway of their hips. 

The world spun away with their motion, their hands mapping each other’s bodies, James through and under Silver’s clothes, Silver over James’ skin.

When Silver’s warm fingers wrapped around his cock, James’ eyes slammed shut and he let out a strangled cry as he came after just two strokes, breaking their kiss when his spine arched sharply. The orgasm tore him apart, roaring through him like wildfire, unstoppable and powerful and violent as everything inside of his body pulsed along with his release. 

_ Yes. Oh, God yes, _he thought before his brain whited out when his body clenched over and over.

Silver pulled up his right foot, planting it on the bed for purchase as he fucked James through it, and James managed to open his eyes to find Silver watching him, mouth open, face flushed and pupils blown wide with lust, and his breathing erratic. His hand buried in James’ hair, fingers curling possessively around his skull.

Lines of glistening white streaked Silver’s shirt and the exposed part of his chest where the fabric twisted sideways to display his right nipple. James leaned forward, his own fingers delving through Silver’s damp curls, silently rejoicing at finally being able to touch it. Then, he lapped at the spend on Silver’s flesh, sucking the skin and nipple clean and rasping the flat of his tongue over the taut nub. 

Like a spark to tinder, Silver keened, his back rising off the bed so sharply it nearly threw James off, burying himself deep within James’ body and quaking as he came, his cock thickening and pulsing inside. Ropey tendons in his neck stood out and his face contorted in ecstasy, a rich flush rushing up from his chest to tint his tanned cheeks.

He slowly came down, trembling, hand fisted in James’ hair and the other still curled around his softening shaft.

James collapsed on him, strength giving out, every muscle in his body like molten gold. As Silver softened inside him, his rapid fire heartbeat thrummed against James’ ear.

Silver’s fingers relaxed and he gently brushed the hair off of James’ face as he slipped free of James’ body.

Closing his eyes, James tried to remember this part right here, the physical closeness, the emotional high, and imprint it on his consciousness so it would be a memory he could treasure for the rest of his life. If he were to only have this moment with Silver, he would hold it for as long as he could. The silence spun out, and James' eyes grew heavy, but he fought sleep. He would not waste another moment and was perfectly content to lie like this for the rest of his life.

“Is that how it always feels?” Silver asked, his voice quiet.

James’ eyes flew open, and he raised his head to gape at him. “What?” 

Silver smiled at him, a genuine grin, and James’ heart twisted. _ Oh, dear God. _

“I said, is that how it always feels?”

“Silver—”

“John, please. I think we can manage that much, can’t we?” 

James hesitated and scooted to hover over him, ignoring for now the evidence of their act on his thighs, the wetness trickling out of him as he shifted positions. “You mean you never... you haven’t—?”

An indulgent smile spread over John’s lips, and James wanted nothing more than to touch it with his fingertips. “Not with a man, no, though I will admit to some experience with men when needs must and the opportunity presented itself. And never with a woman like that either.” John’s smile faded, eyes flickering with concern. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not any more than I wanted you to.” Jesus Christ, he had never been anyone’s first experience, and to have it be like what they had just done? They were both grown men, and God, it had been fucking fantastic, but he felt a twinge of guilt that he had not known.

“You didn’t answer my first question,” John murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind James’ ear.

_ Is that how it always feels? _

“No,” James said and raised an eyebrow with a smirk. “Sometimes it’s better.” 

John’s eyes stretched comically wide and James’ smile grew as a rush of amusement flooded him. When he did, John caught his breath and leaned up to kiss James softly on the lips as if to capture it with his own. 

“What is this, James?” he whispered against them, and James curled his fingers in John’s hair, tracing the silkiness with the pads of his fingers.

_ What do you want it to be? _

“I don’t know.” James turned to press his lips to John’s cheek, his jaw, then his pulse thumping steadily beneath his skin. 

This happened, this thing between them James had thought about, turned and examined for months in his head. John, however, had less than a few hours with it and James found himself unsure of the next steps.

He sighed, rolled over and sat up, grimacing at the feeling before he stood to wet a cloth with the ewer on the sill. When he turned, he found John watching him. “I think that depends on what happens from here on out,” he said honestly. He took a moment to clean himself up before he rinsed the cloth and sat next to John on the bed. 

John gave him a small smile as James thoroughly cleaned his bared skin. James dropped the rag on the floor and ran his eyes down John’s body, trailing his fingers lightly over John’s thigh and let their path continue until he lay a palm on the strap of his iron leg. Without asking, but with gentle fingers, he unclasped the triple buckles, silently approving of whoever crafted the new design, as he supposed three buckles allowed for adjustment and more flexibility. The peg came off easily enough, though even James could see in the dim light that the stump was dark with bruises and abused flesh. There did not seem to be any raw or bleeding areas, though, but James felt a pang of remorse. 

“Jesus, John,” he breathed, the name feeling right on his tongue. He wanted to say it a thousand times in a thousand different ways. “You should not have followed me like that in the rain.”

John’s hand stilled its restless tracing of circles on James’ knee. “Shouldn’t I have?”

James placed a hand directly above the stump and John flinched, but James didn’t relent. “Not if it leaves you in pain tomorrow.”

John huffed a quiet laugh. “Worth it.”

Warmth spread through James at that laugh and those words. 

Tugging John out of his trousers, James admired the play of muscles in his bare thighs as they shifted under his tan, but he frowned as he touched John’s soiled shirt.

“You need to take this off. You can borrow one of mine.”

John hesitated, and James wondered at it. 

The seconds ticked by, and James opened his mouth to question him when John looked away, but he lifted the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head to toss it to the floor. James eyes roamed greedily up the expanse of skin of John’s abdomen, at his small brown nipples and the smooth planes leading to a toned, muscular chest. 

Two new scars marked John’s skin. A long gash along the left side of his ribs, recently healed, as it still looked pink and tender, and a small circular pucker of skin on his left bicep. 

And a tattoo. 

James reached out to touch it, but John put a hand over his fingers, staying them. When James raised his eyes to John’s he could not parse out the expression on Silver’s face, but something lurked there, something unsure. After a few beats though, Silver lifted his hand away. James frowned at the way Silver swallowed and then he leaned forward to see the tattoo better in the dim light. 

An hourglass, perhaps a hand’s breadth in height, was inked on John’s left pectoral. The detail on it was exquisite, much more elaborate than what James had seen sailors do for each other on the beach or on a ship. The wood bases had texture and depth, and the glass gleamed in a way that made it seem three dimensional. James did not know how it was possible, but individual grains of sand fell through the neck, the sand more than half gone from the top. Ornate, curled words snaked down both sides.

“This is... beautiful,” James said, meaning it. Silver said nothing, his breathing going quiet when James moved closer to read the script.

_ There is freedom _down the left side,

_ in the dark _ up the right.

Heart tripping in his chest and crashing against his ribcage, James whispered, “John, why?”

John tensed and started to shift away, but James quieted him with his palm, pressing him down where John began to rise off the bed. 

James’ throat closed up on him and he laid his forehead on John’s ribs, because he _ knew _ why. “The dark waits. The dark comforts,” he said when John did not answer, echoing Obeah’s words, eyes burning as he pressed his lips over the tattoo and looked up. 

God. She had been right. The old woman had been right.

Silver stared at him, wide-eyed and pensive. “It’s what you said—”

“I know what I said.” James kissed the tattoo again, ran his thumb over the words. They were warm against his skin.

John swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “A woman in Tortuga did it. Said I needed something meaningful. It was the first thing I thought of.”

James quirked a smile. “Impulse decision, then?”

“No. No, not an impulse. I remember every word of what you said, like they are burned on my soul. I dream of you saying them… “ John trailed off and he blushed, embarrassed, but it was obvious he wished to say more.

“And?”

“And of how it could have ended differently,” John said softly. He traced the line of James’ jaw with his knuckles, and the skin tingled in his path.

“Yes.” There was not any other response to that, because it was true. Things could have gone differently, but they hadn’t.

“I sent you away.” John’s emotions twisted in his tone— regret and possibly a bit of pride for besting Captain Flint. “I betrayed you, and you… _ forgive _ me?”

James moved to lie on his side, head propped up by his hand, body pressed along the length of John’s, legs entwined. He laid his palm over the tattoo and sighed. “You had to be my end. You are the only one who could have done it, and you did what was necessary.”

John gaped. “What?”

James shrugged, the movement casual, but the meaning behind it far from insignificant. “It was necessary. For you. For me. For everyone I had pulled down with my blind rage.” Somewhere along the line, James came to this truth, and it had taken him a long, painful route to find it and the forgiveness which followed. “I hated you for it for a while.”

Confusion clear in John’s expression, he splayed his hand on James chest. “But you loved him. You loved him more than the gold.”

“Yes.” James would not deny it, for it was the truth.

John digested his answer for a minute before he asked again, “What is this?” 

James smiled. “I know I want you. This.” He leant down and pressed a soft kiss to John’s mouth, breathing his breath, and John caressed his cheek, a slight trembling in his fingers.

“After everything that happened, how can you be so certain?” 

James narrowed his eyes and waited.

John started to say something. He opened his mouth, but closed it as if he realized just who it is he spoke with. James pulled John’s hand away to press a kiss to his palm.

“How is this you?” John whispered with wonder. “How is this the same man whose mere name put fear in the hearts of men?”

James twined their fingers together. “It has always been me.” _ And now all this man wants is you. _

John huffed a soft laugh. “I think would have noticed.”

“You did.” 

That was what the visions taught James. In all of them, John saw through him, saw through the veneer of the pirate king, the domineering, manipulative captain, and the vicious, vengeful warrior. And still he stayed by his side until Flint’s actions had pushed him into making a choice. He wanted to tell John this, but his explanation would not do justice to the truth. 

A question lurked between them though, and James could no longer afford not to ask it. He needed to know now, rather than later, if it was not already too late.

“What of Madi?” 

John flinched and glanced aside, rending the fragile moment spun between them in two. “She lives. She thrives. Only without me. She never forgave me for sending you away. For letting the gold stay hidden.” He flashed a crooked smile. “And she was not as good at sharing as she thought she was.” The fingers of his free hand touched his tattoo. “I stayed on the island with her for six months without leaving it, and that was plenty long enough to know I was more of a burden and an outsider than anything else. She loved me, and I her, but I never felt… whole.”

His gaze went to mid-distance and he frowned. “We never argued. We just… drifted apart to the point where there was no crossing the divide between us, and I was looking more to the sea every day, knowing I could be useful on it, where I was not on that island. When it ended between she and I, it hurt, but not as much as it should have, because you were right. I needed more. I needed what being a pirate could give me.”

The admission obviously pained John, the shadows of guilt of it showed in the creases across his brow. 

James could not lie to himself. John’s answer gave him a measure of relief, but to know he had been at least a part of their dissolution was a heavy burden to bear.

“I thought it might have been easier on you both because I was not there.”

John’s face clouded and he rounded a glare at James, nostrils flaring. His hand dropped away from James’ chest. 

“Jesus Christ. Are you fucking serious? Of _ course _ it should have been easier, but since when do I choose easy?” He laughed bitterly and scowled at the ceiling. “It took me an eternity to stop glimpsing you out of the corner of my eye, on the island, in the edge of a campfire light, in my cabin, on the deck of my ship. Time and time again I caught myself turning a phrase like you, and when I became captain, issuing commands like you. Nearly as long before I stopped hearing your voice in my head when I had made some ridiculous mistake— of which I made plenty— stopped needing your unvarnished opinions, your conversation, your... presence.”

Well, at least James had not been alone in such things. 

“You did well enough on your own, Long John Silver, since I have not been there.”

John made an irritated sound and squeezed James’ fingers hard. “I had no choice, did I? And I am well acquainted with the fact you have not been there, since I am the one who made that happen in the first place, thank you very much, and so I am quite sure I do not understand your need to state the fucking obvious.” He breathed in and out, purposefully even and deep, and then he turned his head, raking his gaze over James, noticeably calmer. “And I may be Long John Silver, but the ghost of Captain Flint is more fearsome. Your name alone—”

James interrupted him with a shake of his head. “That is not my name anymore.”

John blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“Captain James Flint is dead. James McGraw died when Captain James Flint was born. I do not know who I am, but it is not either of them.” 

After studying James for a long while, John smiled and it softened his eyes. He kissed James then, a soft, reverent brush of lips. James sighed into it, fatigue finally making his eyelids droop, his body heavy. 

“Alright. How about just James for now?” John murmured, pulling James against his side as he settled back into the pillow. He closed his eyes. 

“John,” James said.

“Yes?”

“Do you want this?” _ Did you back then? Will you tomorrow? _

John tensed under him, and James tried to remember to breathe until John’s body slowly let go as he sighed. “I would not have followed you all over this fucking town, in a bloody storm, mind you, if I didn’t,” he said. “There is a lot to think about here, and after the night we just had, I…We can figure out the rest later.”

“We?” James whispered into John’s neck. _ Later? _ The prospect of a future for them, however long, existing sent a thrill through him.

“Yes.”

The exhaustion clear in John’s tone, James did not press, though he wanted to. 

John hesitated and then squeezed James a bit. “Is it alright if I stay?” he whispered.

James heart twisted, thankful John had asked, and he squeezed back. “Yes.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: mention of past death

_ Never let the future disturb you. You will meet it, if you have to, with the same weapons of reason which today arm you against the present. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

James opened his eyes, disoriented and groggy. Dim light filtered through the warped window, the rain still pounding against it steadily enough to slide down the pane in sheets. The storm must have stalled overhead. 

He blinked blearily and smiled, as full awareness dawned and the consistent thrum of John’s heart beat under his palm. His legs threaded through John’s, his arm thrown over his chest, James nuzzled the smooth golden skin of John’s neck. They’d been asleep for four or five hours, and John continued to slumber, his breathing even and deep. 

Not surprised, considering how exhausted John seemed the day before, James tried not to wake him.

Warm and languorous, James lay as motionless as possible for several minutes, content to simply enjoy John’s body nestled against his. Temporarily unencumbered by the worries of life, John looked young again while he slept— the lines melted away, his mouth relaxed and slightly open. The thin scar on his forehead barely visible in this light, but James belly twisted a little at how close the blade that cut him had come to his eye. 

James lifted his hand and trailed a finger along John’s full lips, barely touching, John’s warm breath ghosting over skin.

He had kissed those lips, tasted them. James cocked his head and leisurely let his gaze roam over John’s supine body and admired, delighted with the fact he had the opportunity to do so.

James took full advantage of John’s vulnerable state, inspecting every inch of exposed skin. And there was a lot of it, as the single thin blanket James owned lay crumpled in a disorderly heap at the bottom of the bed. Their shared heat had been enough to keep them comfortable last night.

In the weak and watery morning light, the tattoo clearly stood out on John’s chest, its dark lines clear and concise, and certainly done by an expert hand. As he thought of John wearing those words on his skin, _ his _words, marking him in such a way, James leaned down to kiss it softly with a rapid thumping of his heart.

John did not stir.

His chest was bare, the skin even and smooth, save for the scar along his ribs. A flash of protectiveness burned through James, an urge to hurt the person responsible, though the perpetrator was probably long since dead, for making such a mark on John’s person. When he touched it, it was smooth until the very end which curved toward his belly, where the last inch was jagged. A twist of the swordsman’s wrist and a pull of the blade across the skin, catching it at the end of a slice would leave a scar like that. 

James passed his thumb over it, memorizing it. 

Constant flexing of John’s thighs and abdomen to maintain his balance and stability led to defined muscles, a flat belly, and a clear definition of the cut of muscle between abdomen and his hip. John’s tanned skin ran all the way down his body, even and unbroken, and James chuckled. Somewhere in the near past, John Silver had gotten a tan whilst naked, and considering how dark he was, most likely more than once. 

The image of John on a beach somewhere, lying in the sand without a stitch of clothing, gave James pause, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

He scooted down the bed and lightly mouthed a line of kisses along John’s hipbone.

John slept on, his breathing unchanged.

Sparse, dark fuzz dusted his legs, though the inside of his thighs were silky and absent of hair. Even in sleep, the musculature in his thighs stood out, powerful and toned, his right a bit larger than the left. At the vee of his thighs, John’s flaccid cock lie in the nest of glossy black curls.

James ran the pad of his finger along its generous length, barely grazing the skin. 

Nothing happened, and James smiled a little wickedly.

Slowly, James shifted his weight, lifting himself up and over John’s prone body to lay between John’s already splayed thighs, sliding along the sheets and biting his lip to stifle a groan as his very interested cock rubbed across the fabric.

James leaned in and gently kissed the base of John’s shaft, inhaling the musky scent of him, the curls of his pubic hair tickling his nose. He traced the vein running the length of it with his tongue, and John sighed in his sleep, though his breathing otherwise remained unchanged. His cock, however, thickened under James’ attentions. 

It was beautiful, slightly curved and flawless. Thickly veined and perfect in length even when only partially engorged, its width some of the reason why James pleasantly ached this morning. 

With infinite care, James began to taste in wide delicate sweeps of his tongue, wetting the skin of John’s cock from base to tip, which only now began to peek out of the foreskin. It continued to harden with James’ ministrations, and he backed up a bit and lowered his head to lick one bollock, then the other before lifting one with his tongue and carefully pulling it into his mouth to suck. 

He looked up John’s body, the long flowing lines of his gorgeous form, and though there was a slight furrow between John’s brow, John continued to sleep.

Rolling him gently in his mouth, James caressed with his tongue before letting the bollock slip out past his lips. 

John sighed again in his sleep and shifted.

Returning his attention to John’s now fully erect cock, James shifted to his knees for better access. He lifted John’s shaft with his fingers and lapped at the head, exposed and a dark, ruddy pink, the velvety skin hot and salty, the slit weeping moisture already. Closing his eyes, he slid his lips just over the tip and then slowly lowered his head and splayed one hand on John’s belly because he needed to touch that skin while doing this, feel it under his fingertips, scrape it lightly with his nails. When James circled his tongue around the head, tracing the ridge, John’s cock twitched and he stirred with a moan. James sucked gently, and began a slow rhythm up and down, curling his tongue and swirling along the skin, the hand on John’s belly now sliding, exploring, mapping it for his memory.

When John awoke, James knew it.

His stomach flexing, John gasped, his fingers threading through James’ hair to cup the back of his head. When James looked up from his position this time, John’s neck was arched, his eyes squeezed shut. While James watched, John licked his lips and pulled the bottom one between his teeth.

James hummed and continued, not breaking his rhythm. A full body tremor shook John as he thickened further in James’ mouth, stretched his lips, tasted bitter and salty. He took John in deep, pressing against the back of his palate until he nearly gagged. Heavy on his tongue, John was perfect, this was perfect. 

When John’s eyes fluttered opened to stare glassily down at James, he sucked in a breath and shuddered, the bitterness turning intense as John took a stuttering breath. 

James watched John as he bobbed up and down, gradually working John’s cock inside until it bumped the back of his throat, his hand shuttling along the part he couldn’t fit in his mouth, the wet of his saliva running down his chin unchecked. 

John’s mouth fell open, his eyes fell shut again, and he groaned, _ loud. _

God, James loved this, the feeling of John in his mouth, the trembling of John’s thighs around his head as he brought him pleasure, the rush of exhilaration and power of watching this man unravel before him. It was intoxicating, addicting, and he wanted more.

James ignored his own aching, leaking cock, and instead, he swallowed.

John curled up and he cried out, his face a mask of ecstasy as the head of his shaft bumped the back of James’ throat before he fell back against the mattress again. James breathed harshly through his nose and continued to move. The fingers on his head tightened and James moaned around John’s girth. 

_ Fuck. Oh, fuck. _

Writhing, John’s hips twitched in an aborted thrust, and James did not stop him, instead he bobbed his head and sucked in even strokes, working his tongue along the underside. 

John’s breathing grew ragged, spiralling up and up, his cock jerked in James’ mouth, and he struggled to open his eyes when he wanted to watch, too.

“James…” John rasped, his voice gravelly, ruined. He pushed at James’ head. “Fuck. I’m, God, I’m…”

James dragged his fingers down John’s abdomen, revelled in the way John’s entire body undulated in their wake like a wave on the ocean, and traced over John’s bollocks, now hot and tight against the base of his cock. 

He pressed a thumb over John’s hole and John’s breath stuttered and his eyes slammed shut. Then James pushed just inside, the ring of muscle giving instantly and a sob ripped from John as he went rigid, pulsing in thick surges in James’ mouth, on his tongue, down his throat. 

James swallowed it all.

Hips spasming in the aftermath of his orgasm, John gasped, a dark flush rising from his chest to stain his cheeks and he whined, his head turned and pressed into the pillow.

It was the sexiest thing James had ever seen.

Holding John gently in his mouth until his body unclenched and his breathing slowed, James waited until John started to soften before letting him slip from his lips, wet and glossy against his abdomen.

James crawled up John’s body, smiling at his trembling, fluttering aftershocks, and mouthed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his neck. Fingers, now loosened from his hair, trailed down his back and over his arse.

John groaned softly in his ear.

James laid on his side, pressed against John’s skin, and John met his mouth with his own, open and sliding and surely tasting himself on James’ tongue. Their languid kiss ebbed and flowed and remained unhurried, even though James’ body ached for release. 

“What do you want,” John murmured against his lips. “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“Just touch me.” James was too close, too near the edge for such an offer laid at his feet. 

John smiled, his blue eyes sparkling. “I am touching you.”

James growled and a low, sexy laugh rumbled in John’s chest. 

He raised a dark eyebrow and kept his eyes on James as he brought his hand up and licked his palm in a wet, messy stripe and then wrapped his long fingers around James’ cock.

John moved his fist, his thumb swiping through the leaking slit then dragging over the ridge before pulling his hand down in a sure stroke. 

James curled his hand over John’s, guiding him, twisting their fists just the way he liked before John took over again and repeated what James showed him. He stretched up and flicked his tongue over James’ ear, his breath hot and damp as he whispered, “Come for me, James.”

And James did, God, he did, hard and swift and from the bottom of his toes, his spend pulsing slick over John’s hand and his stomach. He shuddered and shook with it, garbled noises he had no control over falling from his lips.

As their breathing calmed, John hummed and brought his hand to his mouth, licking away the come from his fingers before he scooted down to do the same from James’ abdomen.

James groaned, too drained to do much about the interest fluttering feebly in his belly.

When John rose over him, he kissed James soft and sweet. “Good morning.” He smiled and warmth bloomed in James’ chest, the grin wide and happy and meant just for him.

“Morning,” James whispered back, his voice uneven from the morning’s activities.

John swept the hair away from James’ face and tucked it behind his ear, twirling the ends around his finger. “I love your hair like this. Don’t ever shave it off again.”

“Alright.” An easy enough promise with his arms full of John, their legs tangled together, the sweat from their exertions cooling on their bare skin. James would promise the moon and the stars if John asked in that moment. As it was, John melted against him and lay his head on James’ shoulder.

He sighed. “How the fuck did you end up here, James?”

James pressed a kiss to John’s mess of hair, breathing him in. He closed his eyes, knowing the questions that were coming, dreading the conversation they needed to have. “I am nothing if not resourceful.”

John smiled against his skin, and James felt it. “What did you do? Please tell me you did not lead a revolt on that plantation.”

Although John was teasing, James understood why he asked. “No.” He paused. “Circumstances led me to an opportunity, and I took it.”

“How? What happened?”

The silence spun out, and James let it, knowing when he started speaking the words, they would not stop coming until he ran out of them. John waited, the repetitive tracing of his fingers along James’ belly the only sign of his impatience.

James thought it best to start at the beginning.

“Thomas and I managed to live peacefully enough for a time. Oglethorpe was a greedy bastard, but he was not cruel. We worked the plantation and had the evenings and nights much to ourselves, though under guard.” James paused and closed his eyes, picturing the plantation in his mind’s eye, the memories an amalgam of emotions even now he had trouble untangling. “Punishments were light compared to what they could have been, what they were for purchased slaves on other plantations, but we were in no way free.”

John’s fingers slowed. He made a quiet distressed sound and pressed a soft kiss against James’ skin, but otherwise did not interrupt.

“The plantation was far removed from neighbors and civilization, far enough so that we rarely received visitors, sometimes we would not see a soul besides ourselves for weeks. Once a month, two of the guards would travel to Savannah proper to pick up supplies and correspondence and such. So, when a messenger came, it was out of the ordinary.”

James thought of him, how they all paused their tasks to watch him walk along the avenue, long and lanky, dressed in rough brown homespun, his boots dirty, but still staring at the men in the field with heavy disdain. But he held letters in his hand, and that forgave much. 

“He was ill when he arrived through the gates and Oglethorpe should have never let him in. We could all see it. Pale and shaky, sweating in the dead of winter and cool outside, but he came, taking an early supper with Oglethorpe and a few of the guards to discuss who knows what before he made his way back to Savannah.”

A flash of anger speared through James, and John must have felt it, because he reached for James’ hand, twining their fingers together. His thumb ran over James’ knuckles and James continued. 

“I don’t know what happened to him, if he lived or died, but he brought his illness to us. It swept through the plantation like wildfire within a week.” James’ voice grew quiet as he remembered how one by one the men fell to it, feverish and voiding their stomach and bowels with such swiftness it panicked those not infected. Thomas and James worked side-by-side at first, tending to the ill as best they could with the plantation doctor at their side, the other men either too afraid or too ill to help. For days, he and Thomas thought they had escaped it, managed to thwart fate even as the men began to succumb, even as the doctor himself became ill. 

But then one morning, James found Thomas in the courtyard, crumpled in a heap, weak with fever and nausea, and James’ world crashed around him.

“Only four out of twenty-five of us managed not to fall to it.” He cleared his throat, well aware his voice had changed, and how John had grown still. “Thomas was amongst the twenty-one others who did. Of those infected, six recovered, and the rest... the rest died. Oglethorpe and our physician, all but one of the guards, dead.” He swallowed. “And Thomas... Thomas died raving with fever in my arms and I could do nothing for him.”

Sorrow washed over him.

“Jesus Christ. I am so sorry,” John whispered into his skin. He looked up, but James could not meet his eyes just yet. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin a bit to stare out the window. 

“When I had recovered enough from the grief of it, I buried him near the house, under a large oak tree, the largest one on that godforsaken plantation. We used to sit under it and read.” His voice cracked and John scooted up to press his forehead against James’ temple. “And no one will know he is there. Anonymous. Alone.”

He stopped, letting the sadness overwhelm him for a minute before it receded slowly. John stayed silent, still pressed against him, sharing his air.

“I found and stole the coin Oglethorpe earned for keeping us and ran. It was more than enough. The man was a fool and kept it all in his office in one place for anyone to discover. So,” James quirked a small smile, “now I am not just a pirate, I am a simple thief, but the coin bought my way here, and I have plenty left to live on as long as I take in work occasionally.”

Quiet descended as John absorbed the story. He kissed James’ ear with tender lips and returned his head to James’ shoulder.

“Were you and Thomas... happy?” The hesitation in John’s tone had James sighing.

“Yes, of course. At first. At first, it was all we could do not to cling to each other every minute of every day, so grateful we were to be together again. Thomas had no idea if I was alive or dead, where I had been, what I had been doing. He did not ask until I had to tell him of Miranda. He questioned how it happened, and…”

God, it was awful, the moment when James told him Ashe’s man killed Miranda, and then when Thomas’ face dissolved into grief.

“He didn’t know you were a pirate until then.”

James huffed, not quite laughter. “No. How would he? I don’t know what he thought I was.” The irony that he had become who Thomas and he had fought to pardon, the reason for their downfall, cut him like a knife. “He knew I could not have stayed in England. Once he even told me he had fantasized we emigrated to the colonies, or that we ran to Europe and found some long lost relatives of Miranda’s I had never heard of before that moment and they sheltered us.” James shrugged. “He never suspected I would turn pirate.”

John’s fingers resumed their motion, this time tracing figure eights around his nipple. “Did you tell him about his father?”

“Yes. I kept nothing from him, no matter how terrible. Even when he wanted me to.”

“What does that mean?” James heard the frown in his voice.

“It means that although Thomas was the most generous, kind-hearted man I have ever known, he was also an idealist. My reality as Flint was… an ugly revelation for him, though he tried to believe otherwise, for me, for us. Before me, pirates were abstract, easy to objectify until one is standing before you with scars all over his body from his battles and a story that would turn the stomach of most.”

“Did he turn you away?”

“No. He would have never. But… things were different between us anyway, even before that.”

“How do you mean?”

James stared at the ceiling, but saw Thomas’ face, the flashes of disappointment, the flickers of wariness. “I was Captain Flint for ten years. James McGraw no longer existed as he had been in London, would never exist as he had been again. It was little things at first. The easy loss of my temper, the lack of patience, the physicality of how I expressed my frustrations, even the way I moved and spoke.” James half-smiled as he thought of Thomas’ expression the first time James let off a tirade of curse words that would have made a whore blush. “But, he had changed, too. His softer edges were all but gone and his temper was nearly as short as mine, though he expressed it differently. He was silent more often, more lost in his own head where I could not pull him out. Years in forced servitude, no matter how genial, is still slavery and tarnishes the soul. We had each other on that plantation, spent most of our days together, were together until his end, but we were not the same. How could we be? ”

“But you loved him.” John’s voice was quiet, and James did not miss the wistful note in it. He kissed his hair again and closed his eyes.

“Yes,” he said into John’s curls. “And I always will. But he did not know all of me, though not for lack of trying, but when he tried to learn Captain Flint, Flint was not so easy to love.”

John lifted his head, his eyebrows raised. “Are you saying he did not love you?”

James gave a faint smile and ran his knuckles over John’s cheek. “No. I know he loved me, but I do not know that he was _ in _ love with me in the end. There is a fine line there, you see? He was in love with James McGraw of London, and I could not resurrect that man from the dead after ten years as Captain James Flint, no matter how I tried.”

They stared at one another for a quiet minute, each lost in their own heads.

“Do you miss the sea?” John asked, catching James by surprise. 

“Yes, and no.” He considered, thinking hard. “I miss my ship, the power of it under my feet, but I do not miss the fighting and pirating. Lost too much to it. Miranda, Gates, Thomas eventually, and you.”

“I was not yours to lose,” John said.

“I know,” James whispered back. “More the fool, I.”

John’s sea blue eyes flickered over James’ face. “What do you want now?”

That seemed too large, too important to answer with the first thing that came to his head. _ You. _John smiled, and his mouth tingled with the urge to kiss John to stem the questions. Or maybe just because he could. “I don’t wish to change the world anymore.”

“What then?”

“Thomas was my first true love.” _ First. Not only. Do you see? _ “Out of my grief for him, Flint was born. Out of my fury. Fury that blinded me, made me deaf to all and everyone.” He combed his fingers through John’s curls and spread them over his chest. God, his hair was soft, like silk. “I told you once that those I loved suffered. All for my blind hope to wreak my vengeance on a kingdom and plant the seeds for an impossible Utopia.”

Silver eyes softened. “And now?”

“I want…” _ Peace. A quiet place to live the remainder of my life. Someone by my side while I do it. _

James hesitated, debating whether to continue. The visions had been his alone. He’d had time to see them, process them, come to an understanding of what they meant. John had not. 

“What is it?” John looked at him with curiosity, then confusion as to why James stayed silent. 

When James continued, he knew very well it could send John running. His heart thumped hard in his chest, and John looked down at his own palm which lay on it, distracted. 

“You told me once you would be the end of me. Of _ Flint _. And you were.” James murmured. “But you are more than that.” James nodded to himself. He needed to say this out loud, because it had been banging around his head now for months, waiting to get out. His eyes stung and his voice turned thick. “You are my beginning.”

John’s mouth slowly dropped open as James’ words and the earnestness of James’ expression sank in, the meaning of them opened before him like pages in a book. But as James watched, his eyes grew troubled. John drew in a deep breath and looked away. 

James stared at the back of his head, knowing what he had just implied as to what John meant to him. 

Everything.

His past. His future. 

His end and his beginning.

John said nothing, and after a minute, turned to swing his legs off the edge of the bed and sit up. The set of his spine told James everything he needed to know about John’s disposition on the matter, and his heart fell. He clenched his jaw and struggled to get himself under control.

“So,” John said. “You have suddenly realized your… affection for me after that woman worked her witchcraft on you?” He swiveled, and his expression gave away nothing, his eyes flat, and touched the pouch dangling from the necklace around James’ neck. “Is this it? Her magic?” John did not sneer, but the skepticism rang clear in his tone. 

James bent to kiss John’s thigh, a press of his mouth, and did it again. “No. Not suddenly,” he whispered against his skin.

Silver blinked, disbelief falling over his features like a veil. A flush turned his cheeks pink under his tan and anger sparked in his eyes. “Are you saying…? You never once—”

“No. I didn’t.” 

James reached for the pouch at his throat with one hand and closed his eyes. Something tugged from the inside of his belly, a need to… _ Oh. _

_ You will know when it is right. He will stand at a crossroads, as you did when you came to me. _

“And what am I to do with that?” John scrubbed his hands over his face and pressed his elbows to his knees.

_ Dis will help push him in de proper direction, as it did you. _

James’ heartbeat sped.

“John.” When John did not look up, James laid a hand on his hip. “_ John _.”

John turned to stare and James. His eyes were wide and looked as if he wanted to bolt.

“You need to see,” James said, aware he was being ambiguous, and also knowing without a doubt what would happen, where they would go. 

A quick frown creased John’s brow. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.” James slid his hand down John’s leg and wrapped his fingers around John’s, lifting them and then kissing his palm. “Remember to look at me, listen to what I say now that you know. Look through the lens of the present instead of the past. Pay attention.”

“What?” Confusion rippled over John’s expression, along with a flicker of fear in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

James heart positively raced, but he smiled, the pull in his belly harder now, more insistent. 

He intertwined their fingers together and then wrapped both of their hands around the pouch.

The last thing he heard before the room disappeared in a white twisting swirl, was John’s quick, harsh gasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note...You need to know that I LOVE Thomas and James together. Love, love, LOVE them. To tell you the truth, after my first watching of BS, I didn't really ship Silver and Flint. But after reading several SilverFlint fics (OMG, the TALENT in this fandom!!), I was sucked in to the abyss. That's the power of good fanfiction, y'all. 
> 
> So, I love Thomas and James, BUT, a story for them is not what came to my brain. I also couldn't wrap my head around James leaving Thomas for any other reason than his death. He wouldn't have. I wanted to stick to canon information as much as possible, and I am not a threesome writer or consumer (not that I am against, it's just not my cuppa), so here I am. 
> 
> Thank you to those of you that have commented. Being a new writer to the fandom, it keeps my hopes up that I haven't completely messed things up. Please continue, if you will, even if it's something super short, because it is very much appreciated.
> 
> I am ishipanarmada on tumblr, if you'd like to follow. Cheers! :)


	10. Chapter 10

_ If someone can prove me wrong and show me my mistake in any thought or action, I shall gladly change. I seek the truth, which never harmed anyone: the harm is to persist in one’s own self-deception and ignorance. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

** _SWOOP_ **

James’ stomach twisted, the swoop of arrival into a vision distinctly different this time, though if asked, he would not have been able to pinpoint why at that moment. Disoriented and a little woozy, it took him a minute before he could focus his eyes properly, and when he did, he swallowed, recognizing the where and the when of it, but…

Flint sat on a boulder in front of him, facing away. 

_ Flint _ . _ Him. He sat in front of… himself? _

The cadence of his gait was awkward, off-balance. Heart thumping hard, the uncomfortable throbbing of his leg distracted him. His missing leg. 

_ Oh, fuck. What the fuck? What the— _

The words spiked through his head, but in a flash of insight, James knew what was taking place.

He should have known this would be the final vision. How could it be anything else? 

But it was not his thought he heard. They were John’s, though his voice seemed off, distorted somehow.

_ John? John, can you—? _

_ Oh, my God. Oh, Jesus Christ. This is… Wait. I recognize this place, but what the— _

_ John! Can you hear me? You need to calm down. Rem— _

_ — fuck is happening? _

_ John? _

James cursed and then concentrated with all his might on squeezing John’s fingers under his own back in his room in Santo Domingo. Too wrapped up in the vision, John did not respond, or perhaps did not sense him at all. 

With a sickening lurch in his belly, James realized John couldn’t hear James’ thoughts, but James could hear his.

* * *

Silver hobbled forward another step, peg slipping a little on the understory litter.

“You really are getting nimble on that thing.”

Halting, Silver grimaced. “Pain is an exceptional tutor.”

_ Holy shit, that magic of his worked. This is what he meant. I am here and it is not a dream because my dreams sure as hell are not this clear. I am... Oh, my God, I will kill James for doing this to me. What did he say? He said I was to pay attention. Right? Oh, bloody fucking hell. _

“Hmm.” Flint sighed. “We won’t be going any further.” His shoulders hunched forward, but he looked straight ahead into the jungle as if he had all the time in the world and he had sat to catch his breath. 

“Won’t we?”

Flint shook his head, and Silver moved to pass him on the trail.

“I won’t take another step towards that chest until I know for certain I’m wrong about what I suspect is happening here,” Flint said, his voice was rough, emotional. 

Silver’s chest clenched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please don’t do that.” 

_ God, did his voice really sound like that? But he was right. I lied. I lied because it would have been easier that way. _

Silver stopped and the moment dragged on. 

“And what is it you think is happening?” 

_ Such a coward. I could not even face him. _

“I show you the chest, the chest is brought out of the ground… and then…” Flint trailed off, resignation clear and heavy in every word. 

Silver tightened all over, a vise over his abdomen and heart, and John perceived it. Back then, he had felt it, too, but had been too tangled in the circumstances to pay much attention. 

“I don’t know what then exactly, but I doubt it involves returning it to the camp as planned.”

Swallowing, Silver looked down. His vision turned blurry.

“Am I wrong? Tell me I am and we’ll continue on our way.”

Silver raised his head and took a shaky breath. “And then what? This war… your war…” He glanced over his shoulder at Flint. “... her war… Julius will be no obstacle to it. As long as you and she stand for it…” His stare went mid-distance, unfocused and bleak. “As long as the treasure powers it… nothing can stop it from beginning now.” Silver swung around and faced him.

“Nothing but you.” Flint shook his head and whispered, hurt. “Why would you want to do that?”

_ To save you. And her. I wanted to save you from yourself. I wanted her to live. _

Silver’s throat thickened, and his fingers clenched at his side. “This is what it would be. Time after time after time. Endlessly the measuring of lives and loves and spirits so that they may be wagered in a grand game. How much ransom can be afforded for the cause? How many casualties can be tolerated for the cause? How much loss?”

Flint looked down, the regret rolling off him in waves like a physical force.

_ You did not want this either. Fuck. It was written all over you, wasn’t it? You were looking for a way out and I never saw it until now. You wanted this to end. _

“This isn’t a war. That is a fucking nightmare,” Silver spat.

Flint’s breathing went ragged, his frame growing more tense and his demeanor more distraught with every word. 

“And I cannot take a single step towards leaving this forest…” Silver pulled his pistol from his waist but kept it aimed at the ground. “... till I know it’s over.”

_ Oh God. Put the fucking gun away, you fool. _

“This is how they survive.” Flint gave a nod and a sad smile. “You must know this. You’re too smart not to know this.” Lips quivering, he took a shaky breath. “They paint the world full of shadows… and then tell their children to stay close to the light. Their light.”

_ Look at you, James. Jesus. Why did I not see? _

“Their reasons, their judgments. Because in the darkness, there be dragons.” He shook his head. “But it isn’t true. We can prove that it isn’t true. In the dark, there is discovery, there is possibility, there is freedom in the dark, once someone has illuminated it. And who has been so close to doing it as we are right now?”

_ This is what I see in my dreams, your face like this, your words over and over. You could have overpowered me and ended this with ease, had you tried. You could have, and you didn’t. _

“This isn’t about England… or her king… or our freedom, or any of it. When I thought Madi was gone, I saw— for the first time, I saw the world through your eyes.”

Flint winced, eyes filling again.

_ There. I see it. I see you James. Is this what I missed? How many other times? On the bluffs? At the fire after we buried the fucking treasure the first time? How many? _

Silver continued, heedless of John’s inner monologue. “A world in which there is nothing left to lose. I felt the need to make sense of the loss. To impart meaning to it… whatever the cost. To exalt her memory beneath all of that, I recognized the other thing… hiding in the spaces. The one whose shape you first showed me.”

Flint looked as if someone had kicked him in the gut, his lips parted, eyes shining and wet. 

_ Please make it stop. _

“And when asked, it was honest about the role it wanted to play. It was rage. And it just wanted to see the world burn.”

Flint glanced aside and swallowed.

“I see a life for myself with her. And I will not live it wondering if tomorrow is the day your nightmare finally takes her away for good.”

Flint inhaled, and the expression drained from his eyes until they turned flat and devoid of emotion.

_ I did that. What I said did that, stole your vulnerability and smashed it upon the ground. _

“I made arrangements… to ensure that when we leave here, it is with compromises in place that will diffuse the threat of widespread rebellion.”

A flash of fire came back into Flint’s face in that moment. “All this will be for nothing.” He paused. “_ We _ will have been for nothing.”

_ No. Not for nothing. _

“Defined by their histories… distorted to fit into their narrative…” His voice shook with emotion— betrayal, sadness— and he stood. “... until all that is left of us are the monsters in the stories they tell their children.” Flint looked destroyed and on the bed in Santo Domingo, John whispered,

_ Please. Stop this. _

Silver sucked in a teary breath. “I don’t care.” _ I did. I swear I did, but I needed to win this, and the only way to do that was to lie. _

“You will.” Flint’s gaze rolled down Silver’s body and back up again. “Someday, you will. Someday. Even if you can persuade her to keep you… she’ll no longer be enough.”

_ You were right. She wasn’t, but not because being a pirate meant more. _

Silver blinked away tears.

“And the comfort will grow stale.”

_ You knew me. You perceived me better than I knew myself. _

Silver’s breath grew heavier.

“And casting about in the dark for some proof that mattered, and finding none, you’ll know...” 

Flint’s voice was rife with emotion, bitterness, ill-disguised jealousy, the desire to hurt in retribution. “... that you gave it away in this moment…” He sniffed. “... on this island. Left it on the ground… along with that chest.”

_ He was not talking about the gold, or the war, or… He meant him. _

* * *

James’ room swirled back into view with a sickening lurch. 

John jerked in James’ embrace, his breaths rushing out of him as he scrabbled backward to sit up. Scooting to the edge of the bed, he sounded wrecked, his voice raw. “What the fuck was that?! What the—?

James reached out and rested a hand on John’s bare thigh. “The truth. I... and in the interest of full disclosure, I could hear you, your thoughts, John. I heard them all.” His heart ached in his chest for John. The vision had shown John the truth in a way James’ words could never have done. 

Silver stared at him, his eyes bleak and wet, and then turned his face away and hung his head, breaths heaving through him, uneven and rough. James kept silent, knowing how difficult it had been for him to process the visions the first time. Although patience was not his virtue, he could not push John too fast, because the alternative was to force him into something he was not ready for or possibly did not even want. 

With a sudden move, John bent to snatch his trousers, now folded neatly, off the desk next to the bed. 

“John, please.”

John ignored him, his body rippling with tension as he shimmied into his trousers and scooped up his peg off the floor to fit it over his stump, every motion stilted and brittle. He stood and turned his head so James could see his profile. A muscle jumped in John’s jaw, and the fine lines, lessened after waking in James’ bed, after their morning exertions, had come back with a vengeance. 

“I need to borrow a shirt.” His lay in a filthy heap on the floor, covered with the evidence of their activities the night before.

Borrow. The knot in James’ chest unwound a little. If John planned to borrow, there remained hope. 

“In the trunk.”

John nodded curtly and hobbled to the chest at the end of the bed. Curls cascaded over his face, obscuring James’ view, but he heard the rustle of fabric and then the clink of something metallic.

James closed his eyes. 

The quiet became oppressive, heavy with unsaid things. James let it spin out unchecked, afraid of which words might fall from his mouth. 

“James?”

It was a whisper, a faint sound in an otherwise silent room, and James hung his head and breathed through his nose. 

“James, what—?”

James knew what it was. He had held it in his own hand hundreds of times and recognized what it sounded like when the bits clinked together. “It’s yours.” 

After a moment, the bed dipped and something cold draped over his hip. James opened his eyes and glanced at it before raising his gaze to John’s. 

“I know it’s mine,” Silver said. “Or was anyhow. I thought I had misplaced the thing, or the cord had broken, and yet, here it is. The question is, really, is why do you have it?” 

James hooked his fingers around the necklace and bunched it up in his fist. “The cord _ did _ come unfastened. It just did so on the ship as we sailed to Savannah. I picked it up then put it in my pocket.”

“But why did you keep it?”

“I don’t think I understood why myself. But later, I…” James cleared his throat, searching for the right explanation. “I held on to it because it was something I could touch, something that, when I was not busy hating you, I…” He ran out of words and let them fade between them. He kept it for the same reason he kept _ Meditations, _the same reason he had a small embroidered kerchief of Miranda’s she had left on the ship when they went ashore to Charles Town. He might as well be a magpie of sorts, collecting bits and pieces from those he cared about.

John’s expression softened before he pulled it from James’ grasp. He held it up and the square charm dangled from his fingers. The charm itself was layered, a square of silver, and on top of that, a graduated copper square, and a flat cream and black marbled stone set in silver again. As he shifted his fingers, the metals sang. Studying it, he cocked his head, and then his eyes slid to James. 

“Put it on me?” He laid the necklace back into James’ palm and turned around, lifting his hair out of the way. 

James stared at his back and then sat up, trying to sort out his feelings about giving the jewelry back. He reached around and fastened it at John’s neck, smoothing it over his bare skin, letting his fingers linger, tracing over John’s shoulder. 

John leaned into his caress, and James wrapped his arms around John’s chest, pressing his forehead to his neck. “You don’t need this now, and so I think I will have it back for safekeeping. You are welcome to touch it whenever you like when I am in Santo Domingo,” John murmured.

Fingers stole over James’ forearm and curled to hold it tight, and James’ heart tripped in his chest, the gesture indicating a possible future overwhelming him. The built up tension and fear began to melt away.

After a few minutes, John spoke. “When I was a child, my mother used to tell me stories.”

James inhaled, happy John had not bolted as he worried he might, but he frowned at John’s words and lifted his head to rest his chin on John’s shoulder.

“I thought you said—”

John quirked an ironic smile. “Yes, well. We have both said a lot of things that fail to meet the standard of truth, have we not?” He leaned his head into James’ temple. “Anyway, she told me her mother was a witch. Prone to simple love potions and hexes to make sure your laundry turned gray, uncomplicated cures and minor purchased aggravations, but occasionally, she delivered something with greater effect. Curses, good luck charms and so on.” He shrugged. “I thought it only a fanciful narrative, and maybe it was, but, perhaps it wasn’t. Hard to say now, isn’t it?”

Silent for a minute, staring out the window to watch the rain sheet down the window and listening to the howl of the storm winds outside, James thought over John’s story, a strange sensation in his belly. It had been the truth this time. No made up details, no subterfuge. The feeling transformed into warmth and twined its way around his heart. 

“So we can agree that what you saw was not a mere memory. It was us. Our past. You felt it. You were there, and you saw me.”

John swallowed and his adam’s apple bobbed with a jerk. “Yes.”

James waited for more.

“You… you knew then,” John said. “You were so furious, but I saw…” 

“You saw _ me _,” James repeated. “Not just Captain Flint.”

John’s mouth opened and closed, and then he twisted around in James’ embrace to reach out and cup James’ face. “And still you said nothing. Why?”

James kissed John’s shoulder, the warm flesh soft and pliant under his lips. He thought over his words before he delivered them, wanting to get them right. “I was angry and feeling betrayed, but it was there, plain on me. More so than I remembered. There was too much to wade through, too much directly behind us and not enough distance between us and the acts we committed, choices we made. You may have had feelings for me, but you loved Madi, and to tell you then amid all of that would have made what was an untenable situation worse. I do not think I could have articulated it at the time anyhow. And then…” Shackles. The ship. Thomas. His life as Captain Flint drifting farther and farther away as he neared Savannah.

A thumb traced over James’ beard, but John kept silent, digesting what James said. When he broke the silence, some sadness had left his eyes. “That seems like a lifetime ago.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“And now? What obstacles do we face now?” 

“You mean, besides ourselves, of course?”

The seconds ticked by before John snickered and answered, his tone lighter. “And possibly the British Navy, the Spanish Armada if I manage to piss them off as I am certain I eventually will, and a crack pirate hunter bent on catching me.” His soft laughter died away and he groaned as he tugged off his peg again and twisted around to lie back down against James’ side. James turned his head to press a kiss to John’s dark curls.

“Well, yes.”

John sighed. “I do not pretend to understand what happened, through what sorcery I saw what I saw, but I am acutely aware that we have made terrible errors in judgment, you and I, and there is no way to untangle all of them in the time we have now. I ask you, what do you believe will come of this? Whatever this is? What do you _ want _ to come of this?”

“I have no desire for war, or pirating, or turning you against it, if it is truly what you wish to do. My desires are filled beyond my dreams with you here, now, in my bed, the past, inasmuch as we are able, put behind us. I ask nothing of you that you have no wish to give.”

John looked at soberly before responding. “What could I do, where would I go and be as valued as I am by the men on my ship?”

James winced as he recognized this argument. He had said similar words to John so long ago, hadn’t he? _ I value you. Would that be enough? _“You underestimate yourself.”

“On the contrary. I am well acquainted with what I am able to do, and what I cannot, and I apparently have an aptitude for pirating because I learned from the best, and so I do what I must.”

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. His eyelids were ringed with red, and blue-purple circles stood out under his eyes. 

James frowned, his concern overriding his need to see this conversation to its end. “When was the last time you got a full night’s rest?”

“Not last night.” His eyes fell shut, and he smirked.

James tugged at a lock of hair. “Answer the question.”

“Too long to remember.”

“John?”

John hummed in response, already drifting into sleep.

“Is Hands your quartermaster?”

A ripple of tension flitted through John’s frame before he answered. “Yeah.” Opening one bleary eye, he frowned. “Why?”

“Did you tell him you were meeting me? That you came here to speak with me?”

John grimaced. “No. He knows I was to meet someone, but I did not let on it was you.”

Thank God for small mercies.

“You need to compose a message to him. He needs to know you are safe so he does not send your men to search for you.”

James barely got John to write a short missive before he passed out, his body finally giving in to his exhaustion. When he returned to his room after employing a messenger to deliver it, he found John in the same position as when he left, his breathing even and deep.

John slept for twenty-four hours, through the worst of the storm.

* * *

John peered out the window, squinting at the streaks of sun peeking through the clouds. He grunted. “The storm’s passed.”

An uncomfortable flutter in James’ chest made him shift restlessly as he sat at the edge of the bed. Empty plates littered with the remnants of their meal sat on the desk next to them. “I am sure your men are anxious about your whereabouts by now, even given the communication.”

Intellectually, he realized this would happen, the end of their time together. No matter his inner desires, John would not abandon his crew to remain with James after only a few days. He twined their fingers together, and pressed John’s palm to his lips, knowing what was coming and despising it.

“James. I do not know when I can return.”

“If I were out there with you…” James let the words trail off. They both knew he put no heart into them. His days as a pirate were over. 

John frowned and threaded his fingers through James’ hair. “You don’t want that. And if you came back to the account, every pirate hunter from here to England will be after you, and only you. You could not outrun or out fight them all. I can take care of myself.”

James sighed. “I know. On every point, I know you are right.”

“I have to go. I’ve the men—”

“You don’t,” James interrupted, wanting to believe his own words, that John did not need to oblige his crew. The lie to himself tasted sour on his tongue.

“I do.”

James squeezed his wrist and turned his head to press a kiss to John’s pulse. “But not for a while yet.”

John huffed a quiet laugh, and then hummed. 

Straightening and then standing, James undressed as John watched, taking his clothes off piece by piece and letting them slide to the floor where he stood. 

John’s eyes locked on James’ hips, flicking from one to the other, his expression turning stricken, and James glanced down. Purple marks marred his pale skin on either side, a testament to the sex they’d had the other night.

James ran his fingers over them, and smiled, his cheeks heating and his cock thickening at the memory. 

Some of the tension released from John’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did,” James said, smiling wider.

John flushed hard and he licked his lips. “Yeah. I suppose I did.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, James pressed a kiss to John’s chest, and skimmed his fingers down his belly, anywhere he could touch, enjoying the roll of John’s abdominals in the wake of the scrape of his fingernails. John moaned softly and James pulled back to look down at him. If ever there was a doubt in his mind how much John desired him, the stark hunger on his face erased it. 

Blood surged through James’ veins, pounding in his ears and pooling in his groin to leave him aching and hard. 

He rubbed the heel of his palm over the bulge in John’s trousers, and John closed his eyes, arching into James’ touch and moaned, a needy, desperate noise.

God, the sounds he made. 

“Take these off,” James rasped, his tone sharper than he intended, but John scuttled to comply, laying back on the bed when he finished. John reached over his head and hooked his fingers around the simple iron headboard, stretched out like an offering to the gods, his shaft hard and curving over his belly from a nest of tight black curls, his lips pinkened as a result of biting them, parted around already panting breaths, his eyes dark and glittering.

James could barely breathe. “Christ, John. What you do to me.”

“Please,” was all John said, and it pulled James forward like a magnet. James dragged his tongue and lips over John’s belly and then his small brown nipples repeatedly until they pearled and hardened and John gasped his name, his hand threading through James’ hair to hold the back of his head. 

John tugged him up, and James rose on his hands and knees to crawl up his body, peppering his smooth skin along the way with kisses and gentle scrapes of his teeth. Under his tongue, John’s pulse raced at the crook of his neck and James sucked gently, chasing it, the baser part of his brain wanting to pull the skin behind his teeth and draw the blood to the surface, marking John for all to see. John curled his fingers in James’ hair and arched his neck with a soft, needy whine, wordlessly encouraging him. James licked along John’s collar bone, nudging aside the necklace with his nose to swipe at the sweat beading in his suprasternal notch. When John groaned, he held his tongue to John’s adam’s apple and mouthed at the vibration, wishing he could taste that, too.

Lifting himself, supporting his weight with his hands to either side of John’s head, James settled between John’s knees, lining them up and undulated his hips. John’s hands whipped off the headboard to grasp at James’ shoulders and his legs clamped around James’ hips. 

The blue of his eyes only a sliver against the black of his pupils, John gasped, “Oh, God. Do that again.”

His tongue darted out to lick his lips and James swooped in to chase it, sliding into John’s mouth, licking inside and John pulled him close, their bodies touching from thigh to chest. 

James rocked forward and John brought his right leg up to plant his foot on the bed, meeting him in a slow, languid pace. His hands slid down to grip James’ arse, his kissing turning messy.

The dampness grew between them, sweat and precome slicking their skin, and the room grew heady with the scent of their desire. 

James broke the kiss and pressed their foreheads together as they panted into the space. He slid his hand in the narrow gap between them to wrap his fingers around both their lengths, using the lubrication of their precome to ease the friction of his shuttling hand.

John made an unintelligible noise and pulled James arse into him as he inclined his pelvis up. The tension built, and James could feel the heaviness in his bollocks, the thrumming of his desire through his blood like a current, inevitable and unstoppable.

“James,” John gasped, eyelids heavy. 

James kissed his name on John’s lips, nipping at his lower lip before licking it. “Yes?” 

“I want you.”

“You have me.”

“I don’t want to finish like this. Please, I…”

“Tell me.”

“Show me what it’s like.” 

There was no mistaking what John meant, it read clear in his eyes, the flush working its way up his chest even as James watched, the swell of his cock thickening beneath James’ fingers. He spread his legs farther apart and James groaned.

James leaned down to press a kiss to John’s lips.

“Anything you want,” he breathed over them.

“You. I want you.”

A shudder rippled through James and goosebumps rose on his skin. He took a couple deep breaths before nodding and leaning over to the desk where the half-full bottle of oil remained. He scooted up on his knees, John’s legs draped over his thighs, gold over ivory, and removed the cork while one of John’s hands trailed over his own swollen shaft and the fingers of the other circled the outline of his areola, his gaze dark with greedy hunger.

James wet his fingers with the viscous oil and leaned forward to capture John’s lips with his as he traced one finger down John’s cock, over his bollocks to caress the skin in front of his entrance, pressing lightly and eliciting a soft gasp from John, and then a breathy moan.

John lifted his legs over James’ hips, and James grit his teeth, overwhelmed at John’s eagerness, the reality that he wanted James as desperately as James wanted him. It was heady and intoxicating all at once. 

“_ John, _” he whispered, trailing open-mouthed kisses over John’s jaw and the tender spot just under his ear. When John’s breath turned uneven as James traced the furled skin in small circles, he pressed just inside John’s tight heat, massaging the taut ring of muscle. 

“Nnnngggh God, James, yes.”

James’ cock twitched hard, leaking against the juncture between John’s thigh and groin, and James could not control the roll of his hips as he sought friction. 

This time it was James who moaned. 

Finger slick, he pushed all the way inside John and then waited, hand still, the patience he knew he needed to have warring with his increasing lust. John’s cock had softened, but as he relaxed and James kissed him wet and deep, it twitched and filled. James twisted his finger, and John reached for the headboard again with one hand, giving a whole-body shudder.

_ “Oh fuck.” _

“You have no idea how you look right now,” the words tumbled out like a prayer. Like a sculptor’s dream come to life, John stretched out before him, long and lean and built of corded golden muscle. James struggled to concentrate as he worked his finger in and out of John’s body, loosening him as gently as he could.

“James, God, ah!” John gasped, and the iron rungs under his fingers protested. 

James pressed a second digit in, slowly, so slowly, and with every millimeter, John’s back arched farther off the bed. His eyes drifted shut and he panted. James knew what he felt, the burn and stretch of it, the oddness of intrusion, even if it had happened a hundred times before. When he bent his fingers just so, rubbing over the smooth raised area inside the slick passage, John made a broken noise.

“Just like that, John, just like that,” James soothed. 

James pulled his fingers back and then pressed in, falling into a rhythm, brushing across the spot over and over just enough to keep John on edge. And minutes later when he added a third, John’s cock hardened fully and started dripping long strands of glistening fluid on his stomach. He pushed insistently with his hips, trying to fuck James’ fingers, his free hand lifting from James’ arse and gripping the nape of his neck instead.

With a twist of his torso, though, John opened his eyes and stilled his body after a hard tremor. He said through his teeth, “Not like this. I—” James pressed in again and John whined, his eyelashes shiny with moisture as he writhed. “God, please. Just fuck me, James.” 

Desperate. Wanton. Gorgeous. 

James made a strangled sound and almost came right then at John’s demand, and he spared himself a few deep breaths to calm down. Nodding, he sat up again, withdrawing his fingers and then rubbing his thumb over John’s hole, soothing it. The muscle was soft and open, but no matter how much James wanted to rush this, he fought the urge to bury himself in one swift push, also equally wanting to draw the pleasure out for as long as possible. He reached for the oil again, pouring a bit out and quickly slicking himself because God, if he touched himself for more than that, he would not last another minute. 

John breathed heavily, watching, open-mouthed and flushed. “Fuck, look at your skin. So beautiful,” he murmured as James took the pillow from behind John’s head and stuffed it under John’s hips. “Look at all those freckles. I want to lick them all, one by one.”

The tone of John’s voice indicated he was serious, and James tried very hard not to roll his eyes. His freckles had always been a source of aggravation for him, the vain part of his brain wishing they would just finish the job and all bleed together, for fuck’s sake. But if John wanted to lick them all, far be it from him to keep him from it, especially because not one part of his body was spared from the damn things. The thought of John doing just that made James flash hot, his already flushed skin going darker and sweat popping out all over his flesh.

He growled and leaned forward, shifting until he guided the head of his erection to press against John’s opening, the tip dipping just inside. John’s breath stuttered and he pulled on the headboard, and James stopped moving.

John’s eyes were wide.

Concerned, James fought to stay still, to ignore the impulse to dominate, to take and control the situation. He shook with the effort. “John, we don’t have to do this. There are other—”

John hissed and grabbed James’ shoulder, digging his fingers into skin. “Fuck, no. I... just… go slow.”

James grit his teeth, not in frustration but in concentration as he nodded and kissed John on the shoulder repeatedly until John relaxed again. 

“Ready?” James whispered, lifting his head to press his lips to John’s, and John smiled against them. 

“Please.”

James lined himself up again, and John wrapped his legs around James’ waist. When James pressed forward this time, John closed his eyes and opened his mouth as he arched his neck and made a most delicious sound in the base of his throat. 

Deliberately moving in gentle, undulating thrusts, James watched as he disappeared into John’s body millimeter by millimeter then retreated, then disappeared again. John gripped him from the inside, hot and slick and smooth, and oh God the pressure from his inner walls made James gasp.

“Christ, John. Oh, Christ,” James choked out, and rocked in gradually until he buried himself deep inside and his thighs rested flush against John’s. Sweat covered them both and John trembled as James pulled out and swayed back in. John moaned and James swallowed the sound in a kiss, giving in to the losing battle with his willpower and snapping his hips, once, twice.

John whined and dragged his nails over James’ skin. It burned, but only fueled James’ desire.

He continued to move after that momentary loss of control, keeping the rhythm of their bodies fluid and sensual, steady and languid, his strokes lengthening and going deeper each time. This was nothing like the other night, no anger or harsh edges, no roughness or sharp moves. This was James speaking the words it was too soon to say aloud with his body in the only way he knew how.

James adjusted his position, changing the angle in such a way that his cock pushed in deeper, and John ground his hips down in response as James licked and kissed his neck, into his mouth with slow slides of his tongue. 

“I want to feel you, James, feel the ghost of you inside of me for days,” John whispered. “I won’t break. Because God, you feel so fucking good, and _ oh _—Yes. Like that. Harder. Oh, fuck yes.” After that, John’s words dissolved into moans and garbled, unfinished phrases while James snapped his hips vigorously, nearing the end himself. 

But first he needed to see John come.

James tilted to the side, reaching between them to wrap his still slick hand over John’s shaft and slide his fingers over the heated skin, rubbing a deliberate thumb up and over the head of his cock and then the sensitive spot underneath. Perspiration rolled down John’s temples and into his hair as he cried out James’ name, his back arching off the bed, using his hand on James’ nape for support as he fucked into the circle of James’ fingers, then back down on James’ cock. The muscles around James’ erection rippled spasmodically and then John convulsed with a gasp, pulsing in James’ hand, the hot, ropey splashes of John’s spend coating James’ fingers and John’s belly. 

The shudders slowed and John fell to the mattress, melting into it, moaning and skating his hand down James’ back, his nails scratching along skin until they brushed along his tailbone, where he circled it with the pads of his fingers. He dragged his eyes open and their gazes met. John’s pupils were blown, his lips reddened from their kissing, the color high in his cheeks. 

Gorgeous.

James brought his hand to John’s mouth, and John held eye contact while his tongue flicked out to lap at James’ palm, cleaning the milky strands from his skin, while he pressed the tip of his finger inside James.

Unstoppable and without warning, James’ orgasm crashed upon him, and he broke. He gasped, his movements stuttering as the intense surges overwhelmed him. His cock pulsed, filling John and slicking him even further, the sound of his thrusting turning wet. He was on fire, burning from the inside out, burnt to ashes and rising from them like a phoenix as he slowed the pumping of his hips to a stop. 

With a final shudder, he collapsed onto John, still within him, and James pressed his forehead into John’s neck, for several minutes doing nothing but enjoying the tingling of his skin and the damp heat between their bodies.

John’s heart thundered against James’ cheek, and his hand reached up to brush tendrils of sweaty hair off James’ face. 

“Mmm. I think that is _ exactly _ how it can be better,” he murmured, running his foot down the back of James’s thigh. 

James looked up and chuckled at John’s heavy-lidded eyes and satisfied expression on his face. Their lips met soft and sweet, and John sighed. He smiled at the ceiling, a wide happy grin until it clouded over and his smile fell.

Concern rippled over James. “What is it?” he asked. Were the regrets crowding in now? 

John kept his eyes upward, and he swallowed before he spoke. “All my life, I have spent scrabbling to feel right, to find a place in this world, and then I stole that damn map just because I saw an opportunity, and I met you.” His voice was rough, and the smile merely a shadow, though his eyes glittered when he turned to James. “You kiss me, and I am whole again. You touch me, and I am right. When I leave here...” His breath caught on the words and they lingered, carving a hole in James’ heart. 

The lump in James’ throat would not go away, so he reached up to cup John’s face in his hand, giving himself a moment. 

“When you leave here, you will do what you need to do to stay alive. You will fight, you will take care of the men under you because they expect it and hopefully deserve it.” James heard the thickness of his voice, but he was not ashamed. He was through with that and had been for a long while. “I am no sailor’s wife, John. I will not stand weeping at the shore, begging you to stay because I want you hold on to you. I will not demand you give up your life if that is the only one you see for yourself, but know this: I will be here if you return, but in the end, a life on this island is not what I want. I still want to walk away from the sea to find that place where my oar will be mistaken for a shovel, somewhere to have a home and the peace that goes with it.”

_ With or without you. Please let it be the former. _

John angled in to press his lips over James’, and then leaned their foreheads together. When he finally spoke, he only said one word, and it would have to be enough.

“Alright.”


	11. Chapter 11

_ Be like the cliff against which the waves continually break; but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

The red dirt path between the boulders twisted and turned, accommodating the enormous monoliths. The surf roared in the distance— a faraway, constant song that soothed James’ nerves as he followed close behind John, though he might be loath to admit it.

They had argued about this, about James coming with him to see him off to John’s awaiting crew. The disagreement went as most of theirs had in the past, with James insisting, and then demanding his way in his Captain Flint voice, his teeth bared and his eyes glittering with repressed danger.

John eventually capitulated after one astute observation James could not deny.

“You want them to see you, to know Captain Flint is alive.”

James raised a brow, and John laughed, delighted. 

“And you want them to know who fucked their captain.” He pulled James in for a sound kiss, his arms curling around James’ waist and tugging him close. James had melted into him with a sigh, Captain Flint giving way. “You are such a bastard.”

And that had been the end of it. 

As they crested the hill, the_ Hispaniola’s _ main mast became visible, her sails still furled, but a good number of her crew shimmying over the rigging like ants, readying her for departure. The rest of the crew worked on the beach, rolling up tents and loading last minute supplies on the two longboats remaining on the shore.

John stopped, his hands planted on his hips as he surveyed the activity. Since leaving James’ rooms, John’s entire body language had shifted, a slight stiffening of his posture, a lifting of his chin and tightening of the muscles along his jaw. The few times James attempted conversation, he received curt, short answers. James’ concern grew with every step, and he wondered at the source of John’s tension.

The_ Hispaniola _ anchored perhaps a mere fifty yards off shore, an indication the sea floor dropped steeply after the beach. A beautiful schooner, she was long and sleek, and a solid two hundred tons, at least. Her two masts rose to the sky, spearing the clear blue in two straight lines. 

James eyed it with grudging admiration, knowing what a distinct advantage her design would have over prize merchant vessels. Designed for tacking and sailing close to the wind, she would be able to run down slower, more cumbersome ships with ease. He pondered how she would feel under his feet, with the full force of the wind in her sails.

“No.”

James glanced over to John who smirked at him with open amusement. 

“Beg pardon?” James said.

“You are staring at her like… Well, like you look at _ me _ now.” John’s eyes sparkled with wicked mirth. “You can’t have both of us.” He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. “It’s one or the other.”

James ducked his head and grinned at his obviousness. “I suppose I must concede the victory to you, then, because the contest ended before it truly began.” His smile softened as he stepped into John’s space, just in time to watch the pink tip of John’s tongue wet his lips and his eyes flit to James’ mouth. James’ cheeks heated, and he could not blame it on the sun.

“You are an evil man, James,” John murmured, with an expression that said clearly he was completely fine with that.

“So I have been told.”

Movement from the corner of his eye caught James’ attention.

“Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck is _ he _ doing here?” Israel Hands snarled, his fingers resting on the pistol at his hip. 

James stepped away, and John’s posture changed again, his entire frame turning guarded and rigid. 

Brutish, scarred, and perpetually irritated, Israel Hands looked much the same since James saw him last in Savannah. 

“It is no matter to you, Hands,” John said.

“The hell it’s not.” Hands scowled, the set of his shoulders unyielding. 

James sighed. He had not been intimidated by Hands as Captain Flint, and he sure as hell was not now. But this was not how he intended to say goodbye to John. 

“I have no mind to steal his ship, if that is what concerns you.”

“It ain’t his ship that fucking concerns me, Flint.” Hands glanced pointedly at John, his eyes narrowing. “This where you have been the past two days? With this bastard?”

James’ skin flashed hot with indignation, and he shifted his feet until he faced Hands head on, unconsciously moving in front of John, who made a soft, annoyed sound. “I believe he said it is none of your concern.”

“You.” Hands jabbed a finger toward James, and John took a step forward to stand next to James, though Hands did not seem to notice over his ire. “Shut the fuck up. Is this why we came here? For him?”

“You overstep your bounds, Quartermaster.” John’s tone remained calm, but his eyes snapped with anger and tension echoed through his frame. He vibrated like a tuning fork.

They stared at one another, the seconds ticking by, until Hands gave in, his glinting eyes sliding toward James. He spat a wet glob on the ground and his lip curled. 

“Alright, Captain. But you’ll not win any loyalty by bringin’ him ‘round. The crew sees him, and figure out who he is, and there will be hell to pay. Every one of them’ll be willing to turn him over, given the bounty on his head.”

James’ eyes widened a bit. He wondered idly how much coin he was worth after so long. 

John leaned into Hands’ space. “None of these men ever sailed with Flint. They will not—”

“John,” James said, seeing John working himself up and wanting to cut this line of conversation short. 

“— recognize him, aside from you, Hands. And if there were any who—”

_ “John.” _

Both Hands and John turned, responding to James’ commanding tone, both displeased by his interruption, but James focused solely on John.

“We will say our farewells here.” 

James refused to look at Hands, not giving a shit what Hands thought about him, but also not wanting to undermine John’s authority in front of Hands. To do so would be to put John in greater danger than simply being on the account would do.

He had come, hoping to belay some of his trepidation over John’s departure, to assure himself his ship and his men were well equipped in case Scott or any other force sought to hunt him down. It was not as if he did not trust John’s ability as captain, but his mind would not quiet until he had seen it for himself. 

“Say your farewells?” Hands’ keen gaze flickered back and forth between John and James, neither of whom paid him any direct attention. Comprehension dawned in Hands eyes and his expression turned an interesting combination of loathing and disgust. 

He made a pained noise. “Oh, bloody hell. You’re _ fucking _ him. Of all the—” He slapped his hands against his thighs. “For fuck’s sake. Could have stuck your cock in anyone, _ anyone, _and you chose him? What the—” 

He broke off when John stepped directly in between him and James, his countenance thunderous, and his voice deadly quiet. 

“Another word, Hands,” he hissed through his clenched jaw. 

Hands clapped his mouth shut with a snap, the anger churning on his face at the threat in John’s tone. The challenge hung in the air, and Hands’ nostrils flared and his teeth flashed. He spun on his heel and stalked off down the beach toward the men, barking orders.

“Will he be a problem for you?” James asked.

“No.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I am.”

James had a rush of mixed emotions at his tone— pride, concern, and the strong and ever present lure of attraction at the power and confidence John exuded.

They watched the surf together for a while, its push and pull against the coves’ shore, the screech of sea birds as they wheeled overhead.

When John did not say it, James knew he needed to, and he turned to John. “You need to go.”

A kaleidoscope of emotions flitted over John’s face before it settled on resolute, though his eyes shone and he had to swallow before he spoke. He gave a curt nod.

“I swear I—”

James shook his head and glanced up at the sky, a wry smile curving his lips. “Please don’t. Do not make a promise you may not be able to keep.”

John let out a shaky breath. “I cannot risk steering my crew here because of… my own ends. Hands may be an arsehole, but he is right. If they know, there will be hell to pay. But… I… What do you want me to do?”

Echoes of the _ Maria Aleyne _ flitted through James’ memory, of using his ship and its crewmen for his own objectives and lying to them about it, and the aftermath, the distrust and rumors that undermined his captaincy. 

James knew this nebulous thing with John could be temporary, no matter what the visions tried to tell him. After all, they meant to show him where he had erred, to find his way again instead of stagnating in a never-ending circle of anger and regret, and they had done just that. Even if John sailed off and James never saw him again, he would know he had found the path to being true to himself. That did not mean it would not be unbearably painful if John did not return. 

But he had told John he would not hold him here, and he had meant it.

“You will come if you are able and if it does not put you or your crew in danger. If not…” James inhaled and worked the words past the lump in his throat. “... then I will somehow send word to you when I leave this place.”

John’s mouth fell open. “Leave?”

“I am not in a great hurry to do so.”

“But?”

“But I spent ten years of my life fighting because it was the only thing that saved me from the voices in my head telling me who I loved was something to be ashamed of. Then for the next two years with Thomas, I fought back Captain Flint every day so Thomas and I could live in relative happiness within the confines of our prison. Here on Santo Domingo, I am no one. My name varies depending on who you ask. I have no past here because no one asks after it. I have no friends here because I do not want them. I have no home here because it is not where I am meant to stay.”

James reached up and brushed the back of his fingers over John’s hair, playing a little with a curl before letting his hand drop. 

“You need to go,” James repeated, whispering this time.

“This is not the end,” said John.

With a nod and a soft smile, James swung about on his heel and walked back down the path, feeling the burn of John’s stare at his back until he disappeared behind the boulders.

* * *

A month later, John and the_ Hispaniola _ returned to Santo Domingo after capturing a merchant vessel bound for Havana. They had happened upon an unexploited trade route and took advantage of the situation, bringing in a hefty prize. 

The relief James experienced was palpable. John mentioned nothing more about Hands, and when James asked, he only received a thin lipped, tight response. “Hands will not interfere.” 

And that was that. 

From then on, the_ Hispaniola _ hunted vessels along the same trade route or near enough to Santo Domingo to return without much trouble, thus creating a pattern which emerged over the next several months. 

Each time John returned, the_ Hispaniola _ anchored in the same cove east of the harbor. His crew drank and whored their way through town as John and Israel Hands brought and sold their goods to a man named Iago Bardalas, a corrupt local magistrate with profitable connections in all the right places to take on large amounts of booty and then distribute it forward. Once John and Hands met with Bardalas, John left Hands to the rest of the transaction and management of the crew’s duties to come find James.

With unerring precision, John located him, whether it was on the beach whilst James labored, in the tavern as he ate a meal, or in his room. One time, he found James on the road after James had delivered a load of barrels to the Santaniega plantation from the cooper whose room he rented. Driving the borrowed cart, shock at John’s appearance nearly sent him careening off the lane before he brought the horses under control.

When James asked how he always knew how to find him, John’s brow furrowed and he hesitated before he answered. 

“I honestly don’t know. I think of you and I know which direction to turn. It gets easier every time.”

Not responding, because there truly was no response that would be adequate for an admission such as that, they went on their way. Privately, however, James perceived it had something to do with the magic he still wore around his neck. The prior lack of superstition in his life did not prepare him for the conviction he had now that if he removed the necklace, John would not be able to find him.

He kept that thought to himself.

Inevitably, they ended up in James’ room, not vacating it again, and staying quite unclothed for the duration it took for the_ Hispaniola _ to go through repairs if she needed them, or to simply replenish supplies.

John reported to James that after a few heated discussions— of which he refused to describe in detail— Hands had backed off, sulking in his own way, certain James was up to no good and trying to manipulate John into giving up something— his ship, his prizes, his life.

Unfortunately, another pattern emerged at the same time. Captain Scott and the_ Morrigan _ were seen more often in the waters surrounding Santo Domingo. Though this was dismal news, it came with a benefit neither James nor John could have foreseen. Because of Scott’s growing reputation for prowess on the water (true or exaggerated, it was difficult to tell, depending on the tale and who told it), other pirate hunters took their orders for capture and their crews to areas where there was less competition.

Pirate hunter, privateer, or pirate. It seemed to James they were all more or less the same thing, and quite a bit like fishermen. One does not have a successful haul when there are too many other fishermen nearby with their poles in the water. 

In James’ mind, there looked to be only one reason Scott remained near. 

He hunted one particular prey, and currently that prey, though elusive and formidable, was finding it more and more difficult to leave Santo Domingo and say goodbye to one ex-Captain Flint with every visit.

* * *

John lay his forehead against James’ and James smiled, though worry tugged at the corners of his eyes and he knew it. It sat like weights pulling them taut, connecting with the heaviness in his belly that made it churn uncomfortably. 

Fingers twined in his hair, twisting it close until John’s thumb ghosted over his ear.

John had to leave, and soon, or Hands would come and haul him away forcibly, or so he had threatened. 

As James let his mind wander in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, a sudden premonition of dread shot icy tendrils through James’ veins, and his smile slipped away.

Sensing the change in James’ body, John opened his eyes and pulled back. “What is it?”

James wanted to ask John to stay, even though he had sworn to himself he would not do exactly that. To let Hands have the ship so they could be done with all this, but he could not do it, even though more and more John dropped clues he desired much the same thing. James would not be the one to hold John back from anything, no more than he had held Thomas back from championing his ideals. 

He had never empathized with Miranda and her life on Nassau more than in this moment. For ten years, he had inflicted this misery on her. How had she managed it? It had been a mere six months of John coming and going, and each time James walked John along the path through those goddamn boulders to say goodbye once again, he felt just a little closer to falling apart at the seams. 

John felt it, too, James knew. It was evident with the expression on his face at the moment James turned to retrace his steps back through the boulders on the trail leading down to town, the instant where he thought James did not see the flash of raw yearning in his eyes.

“I am thinking of a poem,” James lied.

John hesitated, the untruth sitting heavily between them, but he did not press the point.

“Let’s hear it then. I cannot imagine it to be any good, though, considering the look on your face when you think of it.” He settled back on the pillow, freeing his fingers from James’ hair to trace patterns on James’ shoulders, connecting the freckles in a free-form pattern that made James’ skin tingle and the icy fear recede.

James set his hand over John’s heart, thumb tracing back and forth over the hourglass tattoo.

_ “Come live with me and be my love, _

_ And we will all the pleasures prove, _

_ That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, _

_ Woods, or steep mountain yields. _

_ And we will sit upon the Rocks, _

_ Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, _

_ By shallow Rivers to whose falls _

_ Melodious birds sing Ma _ _ drigals.” _

James let his voice trail off and ran a thumb over John’s lips, then over his cheekbones. His cheeks were fuller now, the dark hollows under his eyes nearly gone but for a trace. Hair neatly curled and plaited in two small braids near his temples, it shone under the early dawn light.

“Who wrote that?” John asked.

James hummed. “Christopher Marlow.”

John thought a moment. “It’s beautiful.”

“I know.”

Twisting around so his chin rested on James’ belly, John smiled, a curved, sexy show of his teeth that reached all the way to his eyes to make them warm like the summer sky. “Do you want to know something I adore about you?”

“What is that?” _ Do you want to know something I love about you? Your smile. The way your nose crinkles when you really mean it and you bite your lip when you look at me. _

“Your utter lack of subtlety. It’s like you don’t even know the meaning of the word, do you?” Though his words teased, his eyes were soft and swimming with emotion. 

James shook his head and sighed in defeat, knowing the truth when he heard it. “You are a shit.”

“Yes, but I am _ your _ shit.” John waggled his eyebrows and they laughed together, ending in a soft, close-mouthed kiss. 

“Will you read to me?” murmured John into James’ neck, sleepy but not wanting to sleep. That was how it was now, the insistent drive to stay awake when John came to Santo Domingo so as to not lose a moment of time. James imagined John’s crew not being much pleased that John probably collapsed into sleep the moment they set sail, but could not bring himself to care. “Something you love, if you don’t mind sharing.”

Surprised, James brows climbed up his face as he spoke into John’s hair. “You want me to read to you.”

“Mmmhmm.”

James huffed a quiet laugh, but untangled himself from John’s limbs to pull a book off his small bookshelf. He had not even hesitated about which one.

The red leather binding was worn along the edges, but the pages were well kept and unbent. And though the embossing on the front cover was different, the words printed on its pages were the same, full of wisdom and comfort. 

He lay down again, and like a true creature from the sea, John wound himself around James’ body, his head on James’ chest, where he began tracing the freckles there, too.

James tried to ignore the tickles, and the words John spelled out within them, as he opened the book and started to read. 

* * *

John bent to kiss James on the lips, a long, deep, slow kiss that left them both breathless, and thickened James’ throat.

“Until next time,” John murmured in James’ mouth, his fingers twisting around the soft white fabric of James’ shirt tight enough to make it creak in protest.

“Yes,” James whispered back, unable to say more. _ Don’t go. I am afraid for you, afraid for me if you do not come back. If I told you I love you, would you stay? _

Not hearing any of this, John left.

Through with goodbyes, James did not walk him to the beach.


	12. Chapter 12

_ Unhappy am I because this has happened to me.- Not so, but happy am I, though this has happened to me, because I continue free from pain, neither crushed by the present nor fearing the future. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

James wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag, rolling his head on his neck to relieve the kink that had formed as he had bent over the mast laid out on the sand. The kerchief over his hair was wet from the day’s exertions and the adze in his hand weighed ten times more now than it had when he had started earlier in the day. 

His eyes scanned the crowded beach as it teemed with activity, the lilting sounds of Spanish spoken around him occasionally interrupted by a harsh, staccato string of someone’s enthusiastic shout or angry commentary. 

Though the main population in Santo Domingo, excluding the multitude of slaves owned by its sugar plantations, was Spanish, a smattering of representatives from other cultures existed alongside it. The English language remained in the extreme minority, and considering Spain’s ongoing feud with England, this was not surprising. James was cognizant of a handful of native English speakers in Santo Domingo, and they all had two things in common. They all hated England, and they all kept their heads down and their mouths shut as much as possible. Most Spaniards this far away from the motherland were fairly tolerant, a fair example being Maradona, but newcomers to the island were not as understanding. 

James spoke passable Spanish, and if he did not have to say anything complicated, he could manage to not draw attention to himself. 

His coloring, however, often attracted unwanted scrutiny as he was the sole redhead in the area, as far as he knew. Sometimes, rather than deal with the stares, it was easier to wrap his head in a kerchief, though he could not hide his beard. 

Today, he wished to fade into the background, and he only aspired to work until he could not think anymore. Sleep had evaded him for the last three nights since John’s departure, and the lack of proper rest left him irritable and even more antisocial than usual.

Nearly the entire day passed, but luck deserted him, however, when a voice boomed behind him.

“Señor Rubio! How do you fare?”

James sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before pivoting around. 

“Maradona,” he greeted, and then looked out into the harbor at the _ La Urraca _. “I am well. You traveled a long distance, my friend, and I understand you brought in quite a load this time. Your men will spend all day retrieving it from what I see of all the cargo on your decks.” James indicated Maradona’s ship. Even from where they stood, he could see the piles of burlap sacks and crates of goods ready to come to shore. 

Maradona made a face. “Ah, well. I would surely get a better price for all my efforts if someone took care of the damn pirates so we could sail without interference!” he growled. 

James laughed and then silently congratulated himself for making it sound genuine. “You have avoided them easily enough, I see. Do you not benefit from the other ships being captured?”

“Astute as ever, my dear Rubio, but they undersell me to that bastard Bardalas, and I lose more coin than I care to.”

Even though he had nothing directly to do with Maradona’s losses, James felt a twinge of guilt. He had been the one to bring John and the_ Hispaniola _ to Santo Domingo, and though John’s was not the only ship to sell to Bardalas, in the past months, his had been the most prolific.

“I do not understand why the locals tolerate them here,” Maradona droned on. “The thought I rub elbows with men who steal my livelihood from me makes my blood boil.” He fumed for a few more moments before his typical jovial smile returned, and he laid a broad hand on James’ shoulder. “Ah, but it is useless to complain of things I do not have the power to change, and I am hungry. I would love your company this evening, Señor Rubio. What say you?”

James wanted to refuse, but the thought of returning to his room alone seemed unbearable. 

“Just let me finish up, and I will meet you.”

Maradona squeezed his shoulder before he dropped his hand and nodded. “The brothel to the eastern side of town. They have a good hearty meal, and some pretty things to consider at while you sup. Do you know the one?”

James forced his expression to stay neutral, and it was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, but he knew another night alone in his room might drive him mad. “Yes, but I think there are better—”

“Ah. But I depart in the morning and nowhere else has a woman as beautiful as my Yasmina.” 

Maradona gave such a wistful expression, James almost snickered, and only just saved himself from doing just that. He sighed, knowing he courted disaster, and then decided he did not care. 

“Yes, alright.”

“There, then. In an hour.”

* * *

Though the stew in front of him tasted decent, James’ distraction would not allow him to enjoy it. His eyes scanned the brothel’s public entertaining area as Maradona talked, oblivious to the lack of James’ focus.

“The bastard tried to short me two barrels, but I realized—”

Maradona droned on, and James did his best to nod and make affirming noises at the appropriate points. 

James recognized it would happen at some point, but he had hoped for a little luck. When he looked up from his meal, however, it seemed clear fortune had not favored him. 

Andre sauntered into the room, hips swaying, hair tied on the top of his head in a messy, sexy bun. Kohl-lined eyes scanned the crowd and locked on James as soon as he spied him sitting off to the side at one of the tiny dirty tables. 

James’ stomach twisted, and he looked away to force another bite of stew down his throat. It tasted oily and heavy in his mouth, and he pushed it away, suddenly nauseated. He should have known better than to come here.

Maradona paused in whatever he was saying and frowned. “Rubio? Are you alright? You look a little pale. Perhaps you—” He broke off and his gaze flicked upward. 

A hand tracked a light path on the back of James’ neck, and he froze. 

“James. How do you fare this evening?” Andre’s voice purred in his ear, warm and silky.

Maradona raised an eyebrow and then took a drink of his rum. 

The thickness of the stew had nothing to do with how difficult it was to speak in that moment. James grit his teeth and wished Andre would go away. Either that, or he longed for a hole to open up underneath his chair to swallow him all at once. 

“Well, thank you.”

Andre hummed and moved to stand at the table between James and Maradona. Purplish bruising skipped a pattern down Andre’s long neck to disappear into the loosened bodice of his bright orange corset. James thought he saw teeth marks, and he swallowed, looking away.

“You seem so. Much better than when you visited last,” Andre said.

James did not comment. He couldn’t over the fear squeezing his chest. That, and the anger at himself for thinking this encounter would not happen, or that he had not done it on purpose to test Maradona’s character.

Andre bent over and rubbed his thumb along the shell of James’ ear as he murmured into it, “This is not your John. Did you find him or can I ease your longing again?” 

“No,” James answered with a grimace, and the heat rose to his face, to his ears. They burned.

“Would you like—”

“_No_,” he said again, knowing his voice sounded strangled.

Andre laughed, unoffended and quick to take a hint. He stood, biting his lip coquettishly and cocked his head at Maradona. “If you say so. What about you, Captain? Yasmina is busy at the moment, but I am free.”

It was James’ turn to raise his eyebrows. 

Maradona’s lip twitched and his eyes sparkled at the flirtation. “I see that, Andre. But alas, I must decline. My answer remains the same every time you proposition me.”

“You break my heart, Captain.” Andre clutched at his chest with dramatic flair, the silk and crinoline under his palms crinkling. “Perhaps next time, then. Yasmina will finish with her guest in a few minutes and I will tell her you are here. Shall I let her know to turn any others down for the night?” His tone turned from flirty to businesslike with seasoned alacrity.

“You are nothing if not persistent, Andre. And, aye, if you would.”

Andre sashayed away to fall almost immediately into the lap of another patron who hooked him when he walked by, and both James and Maradona watched for a moment as Andre worked his way free to shake a finger at the disappointed man.

“Naughty, naughty, Señor Phillipa…” 

Maradona spoke before James had an opportunity. “I have been on the sea for a very long time, Señor Rubio— since I was nine when my mother died and my father dragged me along on his ship because he had no other option, save depositing me into an orphanage. But he promised her he would never do so, so off we sailed on the same ship I sail now.” 

James lifted his eyes and tried to ignore the thumping of his heart. 

“I have known plenty of men,” Maradona continued, “worked with them, fought with them, laughed with them, consoled them in a time of need. I have known bad men, the most evil there are, decent men, and men who should have been canonized because they were so fucking pure. I have seen a man turn insane with rage and kill with impunity, and then the same man care for an injured seabird caught in one of our nets like it was one of his own children and then cry like a babe when it died.” He shrugged and took a bite of his stew, finishing it before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Nothing much shocks me anymore.”

James exhaled, his breath slow and measured, and he felt a rush of gratitude. “I… do not know what to say.”

“You need say nothing. Because as I have said before, I am an excellent judge of character, and I see yours for what it is.” Maradona smiled and patted James on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

After that, the tension eased, and they ate and drank and eventually talked about sailing and the design of ships, about more of Maradona’s exploits, and of the places he had traveled to during his years at sea. The list was impressive.

“Let me tell you about Mexico, Señor Rubio.”

James smiled indulgently, because Maradona had told him many things about Mexico already, bits and pieces adding up to an intriguing picture of a place James had never seen. 

“There is a river, a long, twisting one emptying into the sea to the north of a point that looks like a dog’s head. I followed that river once, twenty years ago, curious to see how far I could go and reckless enough to not concern myself about the natives or whatever dangers lay ahead.”

Maradona laughed at himself, and James recalled a time when he had been much the same— young, audacious, and looking for adventure. 

“About a mile in, the river opens up into the most beautiful lake you have ever seen. Pebbles as white as bleached bone, water like the finest sapphire. The waters at dawn churn with fish jumping to catch their morning meal, and the land on the north side is even and rich with the darkest soil this side of the ocean. The lake is large enough to sail across, but small enough to see the far shore in the distance. Mountains ring it on three sides and it gets ample rain to feed whatever grows there, and Señor Rubio, _ everything _ grows there.” He laughed at his own robust description. “With two of my men to help, I built a home there on a pier stretching into the lake itself because I wanted to wake up with the windows open and see the water all around me at sunrise. The nearest town is two miles farther up the river, so it is near enough for supplies when I need it, but far enough away so I know no one who lives there and no one knows me.”

“That should I see such a place.”

“You find the idea of such solitude appealing.”

“Yes.”

Maradona eyed him with speculation before smiling and taking another swig from his mug of rum. “You surprise me yet again, Señor Rubio.”

A dark skinned woman approached, her black eyes gleaming as she smiled at them both. She leaned down, giving James a generous view of her barely covered décolletage, and whispered into Maradona’s ear. 

He roared with laughter and grabbed her behind as she skipped backward, giggling, her hands out, beckoning. Maradona stood.

“Ah, but this conversation will have to continue another time, I fear. My Yasmina awaits my attentions.”

James smiled and nodded, his mind working as he watched them retreat into the rear rooms. Andre was nowhere to be seen when James left the brothel, alone and lost in his thoughts.

* * *

The longest John stayed away since their affair… their _ relationship… _ started had been four weeks. 

Two weeks after the_ Hispaniola _ departed, the same two weeks of working every day on the beach or even in town—heavy, physical labor that left James’ limbs quivering and his mind blissfully blank with exhaustion—James’ stomach began to flutter with anticipation.

He refused to look at the sea unless it was necessary, the bright blue too reminiscent of John’s eyes, though that was not what James told himself. In his head, he tried to repeat continually to himself he had no reason to perseverate over this, no need to stare at the horizon and search for a recognizable silhouette against it. 

Three weeks came and went, every consecutive night affording James less and less sleep. Afraid he would wear a hole in the pouch at his neck by fingering it, James had reminded himself with conscious deliberation to stop, and instead rubbed at his knuckles in a familiar, soothing habit. 

At four weeks, James started to listen purposefully to the incoming sailors and their conversations in the taverns, the blacksmith, the brothels, trying to suss out any information he could. The flutter in his belly twisted into something uncomfortable.

Rumors filtered through Santo Domingo of pirates and their escapades, new names and old alike. Rackham and the_ Colonial Dawn _ took a galleon with thousands of pieces of eight, his largest prize yet, if one discounted the Urca gold, which James certainly did. Bonny and the _ William _ seized a merchant vessel and her consort full of silk and silver worth God knew how much. It was difficult to tell, considering how the numbers changed when a different person retold the tale. 

But Silver and the_ Hispaniola _ ? Word passed around about a ferocious battle between the _ Hispaniola _ and two ships flying the Dutch flag, but the news was at least two weeks old. No one seemed to know who came out the victor, though since the Dutch vessels never reached their destination, everyone assumed Silver had sunk both. 

But no one had seen or heard from the_ Hispaniola _ since.

At five weeks, James began to take the twisting path through the boulders at the break of dawn, searching and failing to find what he sought. He waited until the sun reached at least a handbreadth above the horizon line before turning his back on it. Each time he swung around to return to town was more difficult than the last. 

By the sixth week, the waiting was unbearable.

People on the street steered clear of him, his face stormy and his teeth clenched as he held back the shouts at everyone and anything in his way threatening to escape his lips. 

He stopped working, admitting to himself his distraction would get him hurt or killed if he didn’t. 

Captain Maradona and his _ La Urraca _ came and went, and James avoided him with astute vigilance. He had no desire to speak with anyone, and the thought of enduring Maradona’s good humor while the worry over John ate him from the inside out was vastly unappealing.

The fear that John was dead haunted him, and without proof either way, James felt as if he was slowly losing his sanity. 

In the middle of the seventh week, Captain Scott and the_ Morrigan _ set anchor once again in Santo Domingo Harbor. In Scott’s arrival, James found target for his rising anger, the anger which superseded the dread growing daily in his belly.

* * *

When James first heard of the_ Morrigan’s _ appearance, he went to the shore to watch her crew row in and as they hopped out to pull in their longboat the rest of the way up the sand, he noted two women crew members among them. He found the fact there were women in Scott’s employ intriguing. The only female sailor James knew was Anne Bonny, and she was no mere sailor, she was a pirate and a fearsome captain of her own ship besides. 

Women on board the_ Morrigan _ only bolstered the rumors of Scott’s former piracy, as captains of merchant or navy vessels would never consider such a thing. Though a long ingrained sense of British propriety told James to reject women on ships as not only inappropriate, but scandalous, James knew damn well Anne Bonny ran a ship as effectively as any man and could outsail just about anyone on the open sea.

Scott did not arrive with the group now working together to turn the longboat upside down on the shore, no doubt to prepare it for someone to repair the jagged hole in the port side near the bow. The_ Morrigan_ had taken some damage in its last battle then, and James found a bit of pleasure at that revelation.

As for when Scott would show up, James knew he needed patience, because Scott would eventually leave his ship. 

It took another three hours and well after sunset before Scott and his companion, the same companion as James and John had seen before in Scott’s company, rowed their way to shore in a smaller boat more easily handled by fewer men than the larger longboat. 

James waited like a hunter waits for prey, and followed the two men as they wandered through town towards the center, coming as close as he could without being seen. He caught bits of conversation, phrases and disjointed words, though they were enough to make James’ heart thump hard and the blood sing in his veins with relief.

_ Ask where they saw Silver— _

_ —not in weeks _

_ —near Cuba. The Hispaniola sailed north— _

_ —be an arse. I was only— _

John was alive. At least, he was the last time Scott had heard, and that meant Scott had not captured him. The weight lifted a little from James’ shoulders, but he still intended to go through with his plan. 

When Scott and his companion rounded the corner, James was waiting and came out from the alley where he stood to stride in the middle of the road to block their way.

Scott stopped short and held out his arm, which the companion ran into, startling him into silence mid sentence.

“— don’t know where to look. He could be — _ oof,” _He scowled and looked up. “What the…?”

Scott seemed unperturbed at James’ appearance, but rather intrigued. 

Captain Scott stood perhaps an inch taller than James, his curly mop of deep brown locks unbound and cut shorter than was fashionable. Tall and angular, his long, black coat swung around his calves, his waistcoat a rich purple embroidered satin that glinted in the glow from the street lamp. 

The other was not so ostentatiously dressed. Light in contrast to Scott’s dark, his silver and gold hair was pulled back in a neat queue and held with a brown bow. His buff-colored clothing, though simple, fit him well, and were most likely tailored and flattering to his frame.

They looked like they belonged more on the cobbled streets of London rather than the red dirt roads in Santo Domingo, but James really could not care. 

“Ah. You are the one that has been following us. I wondered when and where you would show your face. Can we help you?” Scott asked, his baritone even and calm. His eyes flickered over James, and James fought to stay still under his scrutiny, agitated by the fact Scott had known all along James had tailed them. 

He bared his teeth, the worry about John’s whereabouts coalescing into something hot and volatile. Recognizing it, feeding it because it kept him from thinking the worst, he growled, “You will stop hunting him.” 

And it was Flint who spoke, not James, the softer, more reasonable side of him tucked away in some secret, dark place inside his heart. 

The companion’s expression turned aggressive at the command. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

James repeated, “It does not matter. You will stop hunting Long John Silver.” His hands clenched at his side and he itched to pull out the pistol resting at his hip. If he could have seen himself, he would have wondered how anyone could have _ not _ identified him as Captain Flint, dressed in his long brown coat, dark breeches and boots and a billowing white shirt. Adrenaline surged through him, lighting his nerves up like flares of fire, the urge to fight his way through this using his fists, a blade, or his pistol overwhelming. 

Scott cocked his head, his ice chip eyes narrowed, danced over James up and down. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Mister…?” He raised an elegant eyebrow and waited.

It perturbed James that this man’s mannerisms even in the slightest reminded him of Thomas. “Your orders are to capture Long John Silver. Give the papers to me, and you will walk away alive.”

“Now you wait just a goddamn minute!” The shorter one started and surged forward, only to be caught by the arm by Scott.

“Mister Hamish, please.” Hamish screwed up his face when Scott said his name, as if it did not sound right to him. Scott studiously ignored him to focus on James. Several seconds passed and the tension rose. “Fascinating,” Scott whispered, his brow furrowed in concentration, then relaxed all at once as his cupid’s bow lips formed a perfect ‘O’ of comprehension. “_ Oh _. Oh, well that is quite fascinating indeed, but I believe we will have to agree to disagree Captain, though I understand your apprehension.” Scott’s eyes flickered to Hamish, who looked perplexed.

Hamish was not the only one. 

“Captain?” Hamish repeated. 

Scott waved him down. “Yes, that is what I said. The Captain here is only… concerned.”

James lost his patience. “I will show you concerned. Hand me the orders.” When he stepped forward Hamish slid with practiced ease in front of Scott, his confused expression melting away and replaced by steely aggression as he laid his fingers on his pistol.

“Why?” Scott asked.

James blinked, nonplussed. “What do you mean, _ why _?”

Scott’s lips quirked into a crooked smile. “It is a simple question. Hard to misunderstand really, unless you work at it.”

Reddening at the verbal swipe, James spat out, “Because I said so.”

Scott burst into deep peals of genuine laughter. “Do not be so droll. I expect something more imaginative coming from a master tactician like yourself, Captain Flint.” Mister Hamish hissed at the name, recognizing it. “Please do not distress yourself. I do not have in my possession a direct order for your capture, and without one, I will not act against you, though you are intelligent enough to know many will hunt you with or without proper written orders to do so.”

“Yes, but you are the real threat here, are you not? The rest are fools and Silver could sail rings around them all, with the possible exception of you. One way or another I will remove you from the equation.” The bitter taste of fear for John’s safety rose up sharp and unbidden in James’ mouth. He masked it with the growl in his last few words.

The attempt at intimidation did not phase Scott, but Hamish swore under his breath and looked as if he wanted to explode. Scott clung to his shoulder to keep him in place.

“I have no doubt you would seek to do so, if given a valid reason and the opportunity. However, if your calmer head will prevail for a moment, you will see that I am amenable to discussing the matter with you, as long as you are civil. Now. Please do try again. Why should I hand you the orders to capture Long John Silver? Convince me.”

“Because I vow John Silver will disappear.” With him. Without him. Together. Whatever it took to see him safe. They had talked about it the last night they had been together, of vague fantasies of a life elsewhere, away from the sea. Rosy dreams and half-formed thoughts right before they had fallen asleep. But Scott and Hamish did not need to know that. Would never need to know James planned on fading away with him.

“Like you?” Scott rolled his eyes. “You have failed in that respect, wouldn’t you say? So do not play games, Captain Flint.” His smile grew. The bastard was enjoying this. He hummed and ran his calculating eyes over James’ face. “I can tell you why you want the order, if you like.”

Hamish issued a long-suffering sigh and hung his head.

Scott looked at Hamish and smiled, his hand curving on Hamish’s arm where it still lay. Hamish grinned despite himself as if they shared some secret joke and leaned into his touch.

“Contrary to the outrageous stories about me, I am not a monster,” Captain Scott said, and his full lips quirked, right along with his eyebrow. “I truly have a soft spot for some scoundrels. Well, those that are redeemable, at any rate. For example, you.” He waved a long fingered hand in James’ direction. “You fought an entire nation for a better life for your fellow pirates, or so the rumors go. The gold, the wealth, meant nothing to you other than to fund your war, which means merry old England wronged you in some grievous manner. Grievous enough to desire to rain hell on her navy and her citizens, at least.”

James thought about not answering, but he did anyway. The anger toward England still simmered under his skin even though Thomas had been alive during his time as Flint. Her prejudices and her greed knew no bounds and had destroyed too many lives for James to feel any different now. 

“Yes,” James bit out.

Scott hummed again and pursed his lips in thought for a few seconds before he continued, while Hamish had not moved an inch, hand still on the butt of his pistol.

“And yet you gave it all up in the end. Walked away and left everything behind, including your quartermaster, John Silver, though I suspect it was not by choice, at least at first. But now you risk all to reveal yourself and ask for the freedom of a man who by all accounts betrayed you. Quite a grand gesture and not one you make for a casual acquaintance or even a crew member, much less a feckless pirate like Long John Silver.” His voice softened, and his eyes flickered with something too quick for James to catch. “It is really not difficult to piece together, you see?”

James clenched his jaw, and passed his thumb over his knuckles, unsettled by the accuracy of Scott’s words. He ignored them. “What is your answer, Scott?”

“While I can empathize with your plight, I cannot in good faith give the orders to you.” He held up a hand when James bared his teeth again. “But, if Long John Silver comes to me himself, we will consider it.”

Hamish made a sound of protest, but said nothing.

The rage in James’ gut threatened to boil over at the ridiculous demand. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. Why would he hand himself over to you like a lamb to the slaughter?”

“Because there is no other alternative?” Scott scoffed. “But I will tell you this. I give you my word I will not attempt to arrest or harm him in any way whilst on solid ground. Is that enough for you?”

“Why should it be?”

Shrugging, Scott narrowed his eyes, the cunning gleam returning in a heartbeat, and worry burned through James like wildfire. “Because if you ignore my offer, I will continue to hunt him, Captain Flint, or whatever it is you call yourself now.” He flashed a grin that showed teeth. A shark’s smile. “And I do not lose. Ever. Bring him to the east end of the beach, over the bluffs three days from now an hour after daybreak.”

What the fuck? “You fool. He will never come into port with your ship anchored here. He’s not even on the island. How the fuck—”

_ “_The _ Morrigan _ will by then be well hidden in a cove well away from where we meet,” Scott interrupted with an impatient look and a wave of his hand. “As for Silver, tomorrow, midday, the _ Hispaniola _ will drop anchor here to resupply.”

At that, James’ mouth dropped open in surprise. “How can you know that?”

“It is best if you take him at his word, Flint,” Hamish said, lips turned up at the corners. “It is always easier for all involved.”

James nodded, believing Hamish told the truth. “Alright.”

“And Captain Flint?” Captain Scott said. ”This is your one chance. The only one. Do not fuck it up.”

James stared in wonder at Scott and Hamish’s backs after they pivoted around to walk toward the beach, Scott’s long coat swinging in his wake.

_ What had he done? _

* * *

The_ Hispaniola _, limping in for repairs, the top third of her mizzen mast sheared off, and a significant, gaping hole in her rails at the port side near the quarterdeck, dropped anchor in the sheltered cove to the west at mid morning the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I am very aware pirate hunters hunted pirates with impunity and didn’t have a piece of paper to allow them to do so, but it works for my plot, so, there you are. Privateers, however, had what was called a letter of marque and reprisal, which pretty much meant they were sanctioned to attack a ship from an opposing country they were currently warring with, steal all their shit, and do basically whatever they wanted with the rest with no reprisals. 
> 
> So, basically, legal pirates.


	13. Chapter 13

_ When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive, to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

James looked up when John burst through the door without knocking and tossed his rucksack to the floor, his smile dropping away immediately as he took in James’ posture on the bed— much as he looked when John departed all that time ago. 

For the past hour, he had waited, every minute an agony. He could have met him at the boulders or gone somewhere else and hoped for whatever it was that guided John to him every time to take over and bring him there. As soon as word trickled through town the_ Hispaniola _ weighed anchor, however, James knew he could not reunite with John in public. He vacillated between fury at John for being gone so long, and second-guessing his decision to confront Scott, because, God, now they had no choice but to follow through with the rendezvous or Scott would make it his sole mission to track them both down. He had made that much clear. 

And above everything else, the stark relief John was alive. It pinned him to his bed as he waited, incessantly twisting the rings he had put back in his fingers— Flint’s rings— around and around. 

“Tell me you have not been sitting there the entire time,” John said, but his attempt at humor fell flat when James rose, his fists at his sides, muscles bunched up in his arms and shoulders, and his heart pounding recklessly in his chest.

“Eight. Weeks.” James stalked forward, all of the wild and dangerous emotions since John left rising to the surface like a tempest.

He let them come, weary of reining them in. 

John’s eyes widened and he retreated until the closed door stopped him from going any further. “I know,” he began, flustered. “We were waylaid—”

He stopped talking when James backed him into the door and pushed against him thigh to chest. 

James growled, shoving a hand through John’s curls and closing his fingers into a fist. John winced. “I thought you dead.”

“I’m here now,” John said, his voice unsteady, his pupils expanding to eat away at the blue.

“Eight weeks, John.” James pressed a knee between John’s legs until it touched the door, and put his free hand on John’s arse, gripping it tightly, pulling John forward to ride his leg. 

It was faint, the shudder rippling through John’s body, but then he breathed, “Fuck, I missed you.” His fingers curled around James’ middle.

Fire raced through James’ veins and with a rumbling snarl, he slid both hands beneath John’s thighs and hauled him up off his foot and peg, using his weight to pin John to the door. He leaned forward, mashed their lips together, the relief of touching him, feeling his tongue slide against his in a hungry, urgent kiss sending his blood rushing south and his breath quickening. He tore his mouth away to lick at John’s neck and John gasped and tilted his head, giving James better access. 

"Put your legs around me," James ordered roughly into John’s skin, forcing himself away from where he had his lips on John’s throat in order to snatch his mouth in another bruising kiss.

John grunted, melting into him, eyes shut tight but obeying without protest, his strong thighs wrapping tight around the dip of James’ waist, the metal of his peg laying heavily across James’ arse. His kiss was just as wicked as the lean tanned body hiding under his roughspun clothes, and James’ skin tightened and tingled with the electrical current that arced between them. John’s shaft swelled and throbbed along James’ hip, and James hummed in satisfaction and pleasure at John’s reaction.

“Don’t drop me,” John murmured against James’ lips with a gasp.

James growled, his fingertips pressing into the muscle of John’s thighs, and John huffed a laugh.

Pulling back, James looked John in the eyes. “I’ll not let you fall.” And he kissed John again.

_ Never. I will never let you go. _

John moaned, and curled one of his arms around James’ neck, scratching lightly at James’ nape and teasing at the fine strands of James’ hair that had escaped his neat queue before gripping his shoulders. 

No longer content to not be touching more of John’s skin, James brought a hand up and wrapped his fist in John’s shirt, pulling it free of his trousers and then slipping his hand up John’s abdomen. The muscles rippled under the path of his fingers. John whimpered and James drove his hips forward, knocking John’s against the door. 

James wanted to capture this, the minutes when the world around them did not exist, when it was just them, only them and the heat between their bodies.

He deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue into John’s mouth, tasting him, devouring him, as he ground into the welcoming cradle of John’s hips. Their rigid cocks slid against one another through the layers of clothing providing delicious friction, and a searing fire began low in James’ belly, edging him quickly and breathtakingly close to his peak. He nipped at John’s lips, bringing forth a startled whine as John met his kiss with fervor.

This would end quickly, and James could not bring himself to care.

James’ pace steadily increased until he rocked his hips up at a near desperate cadence, shoving John against the door with enough force that a distant part of his mind knew there would be bruises upon John’s hip bones and back. His grip on John’s thighs twitched at the thought.

Pulling his lips away from John’s, James mouthed along John’s neck, licking and biting, his teeth pressing into the flesh at John’s collarbone, and then farther down, where his satin smooth skin dipped beneath the fabric of his shirt.

He sucked at the skin hard enough to leave a bright mark, and he knew it had to sting, because it brought the reaction he was looking for.

John keened as he jerked and spasmed in James’ arms, clutching frantically at his shoulders and back, the judders of his orgasm only managing to tighten the pleasure in James belly, pulling his muscles taut with it and sending a wave of tingling goosebumps along his skin.

James managed to pull back far enough to see John’s face, watching avidly as John’s features twisted in pleasure.

_ He is beautiful, beautiful like a deadly storm on the sea, threatening to pull me under, and I gladly surrender to it… to him. _

James’ fingers fisted desperately in the hair at John’s nape and he bowed upward, spine arching as he came inside his trousers, against the vee of John’s already damp crotch, his orgasm cresting and ebbing over and over, his entire body tensing and releasing until he went weak with it. The room shimmered at the edges, and he gasped, then made a startled sound when John caught his face in both hands and kissed him. A low groan resonated in his chest and he could only clutch John’s neck and thigh as he rode out the slowly diminishing waves of pleasure.

James let go of John’s thigh and laid his palm against the door behind John’s head, supporting his own wobbly legs and John’s weight as well. After several minutes, when their breathing calmed, James relinquished his hold on John entirely, allowing him to regain his own feet, the peg landing heavily on the floorboards. 

“I missed you, too, you little shit.”

* * *

James’ fingers trailed over the smooth skin of John’s back, tracking a figure eight over and over again upon the bumps of John’s spine. Moonlight trickled in the windowpane, painting John’s skin in monochrome, his unbound hair with highlights of silver.

The sweat long since dried on their skin, their clothes tossed aside in favor of curling around each other on top of the bedclothes after they had washed each other off with the cool, clean water from the ewer. Silver lay with his head on James’ chest, his breathing even, but James knew he was awake.

He wished time would stop and he could live in this moment for all eternity.

“I can hear you thinking,” John murmured drowsily.

James swallowed and smiled faintly at the ceiling, his nerves back on edge now, knowing they would have to speak about his meeting with Scott. “You can, can you?”

“You are quite loud.” John raised his head. “What is it?”

James looked down along his chest, wondering idly if John could hear his heart thunder beneath his ribs. It seemed to him to be loud enough to be heard all the way in London. Though John’s eyes were obscured by the dim light, James saw the glint of them. 

“What if you had an opportunity to be free?” James said.

John frowned and his fingers stopped their meandering path through the fine hairs on James’ thigh. “What are you talking about? I am free.”

“Free from the account, from the responsibility for men on your ship, without fear of being hunted.” James released his breath, letting his words come at a measured pace. “A chance to go somewhere far away and start again?”

The silence stretched out and the lassitude in John’s frame leeched away. John rose slowly until he sat upright, his legs, minus his peg, still twined through James’. 

John took a deep breath and exhaled evenly. “What have you done?” His tone rang mostly flat, though James heard the edge, sharp as any blade, as well. John Silver was no fool and somehow knew this was no idle conversation.

There was no alternative other than to be out with it then. “We have an appointment.”

John took a moment to digest that information. “An appointment,” he repeated, as if hearing the word for the first time. “What does that mean? With whom?”

James saw no reason for equivocation or deception. “Captain Scott.”

A sharp intake of breath and tension immediately filled the room. “Captain Sc—? What the fuck have you done, James?”

Needing to see John’s face while they discussed this, James leant over and lit the candle on the desk. The task gave him a moment to gather his thoughts, but when he turned back to John and sat up, his back against the iron headboard, James hesitated at the look of betrayal on John’s face. 

_ Fuck. _He had seen that look before, long ago, and not cared. Now, it was like a blow to his solar plexus.

“Scott is here. In Santo Domingo, and we… talked.”

John narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “What the fuck do you mean, you talked?”

“I mean, I followed him and initiated a discussion with him about… _ you _.”

John’s jaw dropped, then snapped shut with a click, his nostrils flaring.

James winced, and quickly told John about the encounter, all of it, trying his best to not leave anything out. As he spoke, John’s expression darkened like a thundercloud.

This was not going how James had planned. 

John kept silent during James’ telling, but the tension rippled through him after James finished, thick and dangerous, changing his breathing, his eyes snapping. “Let me get this straight,” he hissed through his clenched teeth. “You showed yourself to Scott. Let him know who you are, where you fucking _ live _ .” Each word as John said them turned more and more clipped, as if sliced from stone. “You exposed yourself to possible arrest… for a fucking piece of _ paper _.”

The flush rising from James’ chest was hot and uncomfortable. Why could John not understand? “Not just a piece of paper. Your future.”

“_ My _ future.” John emphasized the ‘my’ and it did not escape James’ notice, but he refused to make assumptions about anything, though he already had, hadn’t he? He had presumed this was what John would want, to be untethered from the account, to be free to make his own choices in every sense of the word. 

James reached out and curled his fingers over John’s closed fist. “Once you have the order, you can go where you like, leave it all behind. Start anew.”

It was naive to think in absolutes like this, but goddamn it, for once, _just once_, James wanted to believe there was something beyond this. Piracy. Thievery. Greed. Bloodshed. James had left it all behind, but John needed to see it the possibility and that it was not just a fantasy.

Yanking away his hand, John growled. “Besides the fact that no one actually needs a fucking piece of paper to hunt pirates, what about you?”

James frowned, surprised at where John’s anger was coming from. Instead of being angry at James for making the presumption to speak with Scott on his behalf, John was worried about him? 

“What about me?” 

John’s face twisted in frustration. “Where are you in all of this?”

Voice steady, James said. “Where would you like me?” At his sides, his nails now dug painful crescents into his palms.

John made a noise like James had punched all the air out of his lungs. “You can ask me that. After everything?”

His heart flipped over in his chest, but James whispered, “Yes,” because he had to be certain.

John stared, sadness falling like a veil over his eyes, shining them with moisture. “My God. You mean that, don’t you?”

When James didn’t answer, John rolled off the bed and stood, using the chair for the balance he needed without his peg as he leaned over to rummage around in his rucksack. When he straightened, he gripped a scroll of parchment in his hand. He held it out without a word.

James raised his hand to take it, frowning, and glance up to try and read Silver’s expression. Apprehensive. Expectant, perhaps. John’s change in demeanor caught James off guard. What the hell?

“What is this?”

John blinked and gave him a soft smile. “Open it.”

James looked down at the roll in his hand.

The parchment crinkled under his fingers, its fibers smooth and fine. _ This cost a good amount of coin _, James thought, and his frown deepened. He pulled at the twine holding it together, and tossed it on the table, then unrolled the parchment over his lap.

It took him a moment to understand what, exactly it was he was looking at. Broad gray charcoal swipes covered the page in even strokes, revealing the pattern of stone and carvings. When he finally understood, James swayed where he sat, the full force of his emotions coming to bear. John sat at his side again and laid a hand on James’ back to still him.

“James?” John said, concerned.

It was a charcoal rubbing of a headstone. 

_ Here lies _

_ Lord Thomas Hamilton _

_ Born 1670 Died 1718 _

_ Husband to Lady Miranda Hamilton _

_ Laid to rest here by his truest love, JM _

_ When you arise in the morning, _

_ Think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive, _

_ To breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love. _

_ ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

Tightness banded over James’ chest and squeezed until it hurt. 

“I don’t… What is this?” He could not look up, his head bowed and his eyes locked on the words, scanning them over and over. But he knew what it was. 

John dipped his head to try to catch James’ eye, then carded his fingers through James’ hair, pulling it back from his face to see him better. He rubbed a thumb over James’ cheek, and the skin burned in its path.

The room seemed suddenly hot and close and James found it difficult to breathe.

“This is one of the reasons why it took me so long to return,” John whispered. “I found him. Just like you described, under the oak where you buried him by the house. I had the marker made by a stonemason in Savannah and set it into place myself.” He smiled, and when he continued, his tone was warm and sweet like honey. “Thomas is not unknown anymore. Anyone who sees it will know he was loved.”

James’ hand shook like leaves in a storm as he ran his fingers down the edge of the parchment. “Why?” His throat started to close up, to roughen his words. “Why would you do this?” He did not recognize his own voice.

John bent to press a kiss to James’ hair, soft and gentle, and he inhaled before he answered. “Because it was important to you. Is that not enough?”

Oh. Oh, yes it was enough and James’ emotions overwhelmed him with alarming swiftness. He suddenly could not see through his tears, could not breathe through the wretched sobs that broke free from his chest.

All he knew was the warmth of Silver’s chest as he took James in his arms to pull him close. James could not hold him tight enough.

“Thank you,” the words came muffled against John’s collarbone after several minutes.

“You do not need to thank me, James.” John lifted James’ head and cupped his warm palm over James’ jawline. “I know you loved him and it hurt you to think no one would know where you lay him to rest. That was enough reason for me.”

“John, I… ” The words lodged in James’ throat, but his thoughts ran wild as his eyes roamed over John’s face and into eyes that were warm and soft in a way that made James’ heart leap. _ Let’s run. Let’s get off this fucking island and away from Scott and find a place where no one will know who we are or what we have done. Stay with me. Please stay. _

A kiss cut James’ words off, silencing him as John’s lips pressed against his, the touch light and then a little less so when John leaned in again. As John changed the angle of his head he whispered, “Let me, James. Let me, please,” against James’ lips. 

James smiled through his tears and nodded, glad to let John do anything at all, allowing him to kiss away the moisture from his cheeks and then kiss him with the taste of salt on his lips.

John’s tongue pressed inside of James’ mouth, slow and languid, unfettered by the restriction of time or expectation. James sighed and wiggled his way back down the bed until he lay flat, and pulled John on top of him. His fingers trailed down John’s side, and James groaned softly as John’s arousal thickening upon his abdomen.

“James—” John murmured as he settled between James’ open thighs, then began to suck and lick and tease with his teeth along James’ neck. “Please let me inside you.”

A shiver traveled through James, and he rocked his hips up in response. “Yes. Whatever you want.”

At that, John pressed him further into the mattress with his arms and legs, covering him, his erection sliding into the crease between James’ hip and belly. Electric bolts of pleasure coursed over James’ skin as they kissed each other breathless.

And they kept kissing each other, relishing the slow push and pull of their tongues, the slide of them over teeth and palate like waves in the ocean or the undulation of their bodies as John eventually pushed inside James. So unlike their first time, and truth be told, so unlike any other time they had been together since, this was language through touch, communication of words they had not said out loud yet, tenderness and sentiment and generosity. 

Later, as John moved in and out of James’ body in a slow, even rhythm, stretching him and filling him, his eyes locked on James’, he smiled a smile that lit up his eyes. Their breaths mingled between them, soft pants into the dark space.

“What is it?” James whispered. John’s hair fell in a cascade on either side of James’ face, and it felt to James as if they hid from the world. The pieces of John’s necklace clinked in the dark and the cold metal skipped across the skin of James’ neck and caught on the pouch resting on his skin.

“How did you do this, James?” John answered, his lips full and bitten to a rosy pink. “How did you manage to make me feel like this, when I never thought I would again?

James blinked slowly, the haze of their lovemaking clouding his thoughts, but he heard John, knowing what he asked. 

“I could ask the same of you,” he rasped. And it was true. After Thomas, James never believed he could open his heart again. But just like so many times in their relationship, John managed to prove him wrong.

James let out a guttural moan as John wrapped a hand around his length and rolled his hips. He closed his eyes against the sensations overwhelming him, his breath coming roughly through his nose. John traced his other hand down James’ back, cupping him under his arse and tugging him impossibly closer, plunging in as deep as he could go. The tips of his fingers brushed along the tip of his spine, rough calluses on sensitive skin branding James like they always did. James knew John was feeling where they connected, where his cock slid in and out of James’ body, and the knowledge spiked pleasure through him. He bowed his back, and moaned, completely at the mercy of his reactions.

With a flush dark enough to be seen in the washed out colors of the moonlit room, the candle having guttered out at some point when neither had noticed, John smiled, open-mouthed, and kissed James soundly, licking and sucking and teasing James’ tongue in the way he knew James liked, as if he were marking his territory with enough of a sting to get his point across. 

From then on, their words and thoughts were lost to the gentle kisses and caresses, and then eventually their gasped names in the warm candlelight. Both rose to their peak at the nearly the same time, John buried inside James’ body, James shuddering, his release all consuming and devastating.

Drifting down from their exaltation, John eased himself to James’ side, slipping out of James with a grimace before sliding up to give James a long, sensual kiss, his fingers curling around the back of James’ head.

James ached, and his body protested the unceremonious exit, but the kiss made up for quite a bit.

When they broke apart, John pressed another small kiss on each side of James’ mouth and met his heavy-lidded gaze.

What James saw in John’s eyes made his own burn and his vision go watery. John’s lips curled in a wide smile. “You already know, don’t you?”

James laughed, his heart swelling. “I do. But I want to hear you say it.” He traced a thumb over the tattoo on John’s chest.

John’s gaze was steady and clear, and he had never looked more beautiful to James than in that moment. “Alright.” His smile widened and his cheeks stained pink. “I love you.”

The world tilted on its axis and James’ soul swooped. “And I you.”

John continued, his grin fading a little. “I am _ in _ love with you, and am tired of being on the account because the life of a pirate takes me away from you and threatens the future I want with you.” Stark fear flashed through his eyes. “But what am I without a ship? A crippled man with no skills save for thieving.”

“You are more than that and have always been more than that. You do not need a ship to prove it. You never did.”

John let the silence spin out for a minute before answering. “You have never seen me do anything else.”

“Not true. I have seen you fight. I have seen you lead men and inspire them like no one else I have ever known, save myself.” James’ smile turned crooked. “You wield a sword like a master, because I taught you to do so. If you can do those things, you can do damn near anything you like.”

“Except cook.”

James blinked and then burst into peals of laughter, and soon John joined in the mirth with him until their sides ached with it.

“No. You are not allowed to cook.”

John hummed and looked away, the smile fading again and turning into something much more serious when he looked back to James. 

“I will go with you to this meeting with Scott, James. But if I think he will betray me, betray _ us, _I will put a pistol shot through his head before he even speaks a word.”


	14. Chapter 14

_ “Do not act as if you had ten thousand years to throw away. Death stands at your elbow. Be good for something while you live and it is in your power.” ~ _ _ Marcus Aurelius, _ [ _ Meditations _ ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/31010)

They woke early and dressed in the candlelight before the dawn in silence, John’s movements stiff as he strapped on his belt and his weapons and James did the same, the familiar weight of the pistols a grim comfort against his body. 

Before walking out the door, James laid a hand on John’s arm, bringing him around to meet his gaze. 

“He’s smart, this one. Smarter than Hornigold ever thought of being.” He hesitated before he said the next bit. “No lies, John.”

John’s lips thinned and James had a flash of guilt for having to suggest it, because no matter their relationship, if John felt cornered or if he thought they could gain an advantage by lying, he would do it. A cold trickle of fear snaked down James’ spine, and he gripped John’s arm tight. “_ John, _give me your word you will not try to lie to him.” He fought the urge to shake him.

John gazed at him steadily, his expression deadly calm. “I will do no such thing.”

Frustrated but not surprised, James grit his teeth and took the time to breathe deep before he responded. “Then swear you will just... not answer if he asks something you do not feel as if you can share.”

“You act like this man can read our minds,” John scoffed, slipping free of James’ grasp on his wrist, but stepping into his space and looping his arms around James’ waist instead.

The sun started to peek over the horizon, and James knew they would need to leave soon if they were to be there on time, but this conversation could not wait. 

He shook his head. “No. But I can guarantee he knows enough about us both to catch you in a lie if you try it.” James, in no mood for affection at the moment, stepped backward. John frowned at the loss of contact, but James straightened his spine, almost reflexively, and his voice became gruff. “Just do as I say.”

John balked, “Beg pardon? _ Do as you say? _”

Afraid John did not comprehend the seriousness of the situation, the consequences should Scott decide the meeting had gone badly, James lost the rest of his already dwindling patience. “Yes! If you would just—”

“Stop talking,” John interrupted sharply. His eyes, even more than his firm tone of voice, halted James’ words. They glittered with intent. “Let us be clear, from here on out. I may be in love with you—” John paused, letting the words sink in, ensuring what he said next would be heard, “—but you are no longer my captain, and you sure as hell do not get to speak to me as such.” 

James inhaled sharply, John’s statement hitting him like a blow. Logically, he knew he was not anyone’s captain, had not been for what seemed like ages, and that if he and John were truly to build a life together, they must do so as equals, and yet, the urge to command him, intimidate him into obeying pressed insistently against the inside of his skull. Captain Flint wanted out, and James fought it, recognizing how counterproductive it would be at the moment. He exhaled, and some of his anger left him. 

John seemed to sense the change in him, and his own stance relaxed. “Alright,” he began. “If I swear not to lie, you need to swear something, too.”

Instantly wary, James hesitated and John raised an eyebrow when he did not respond. “Not so easy, is it?”

James ignored the barb. “What do you want?”

“Try not to do that thing you do.”

James scrunched up his face. “And what the hell is that?”

“Act as if you need to protect me when you feel as if I am being threatened.”

James waved a dismissive hand at him. “I don’t—”

“You do. This whole situation is a result of you doing exactly that, and you have done it before this. I have lived without you protecting me for quite a while, and I will not have you making me seem weak in front of Scott.”

James flushed hot. “That is not what—”

“Goddamn it, James!” John barked, frustration stamped clear on his features, and something in his voice making James take heed and snap his mouth shut.

But when he looked at John, really looked at him, he knew. They had been equals, in both their successes and their failures, for quite some time. The air left James’ lungs in a rush and it hit him how much he had not viewed John as his equal until that moment. He had been under the skewed misconception John was weaker than he, that he needed protecting and he was the one to do it. Now he recognized his folly. John was not fragile or in need of protection. 

He had not been the weaker of the two of them for a very long time. 

“Do not misunderstand me. I want this, you, to find myself free of the account, all of it, but we are at a disadvantage. Surely you see it?” John stepped into James’ space once again and laid a hand on his shoulder, and James swayed unconsciously toward him, the connection warm and comforting despite the tenseness of their conversation.

James did see it, only too well, and the possibility that his own actions with Scott had put John in more danger than usual shook him to the core. He had known what he was doing when he confronted Scott, but in his state of mind at the time, he had not thought beyond it, and he cursed himself. Being off the account for four years and away from the need for thinking several steps ahead of his adversaries showed in his foolishness. 

“Yes.” He rubbed the nape of his neck under his queue, the guilt settling in his belly uncomfortably, and he shifted on his feet. “Fuck, I…” Finding it difficult to look John in the eye, he instead focused on the window and let his gaze linger on the red-orange tint of the sunrise filtering through the pane. “You recall, in one of your rare moments of insight, saying that I create my own demons? In light of my most recent actions, I fear you may have been right.”

After a long torturous moment, John sighed, his smile soft at James’ admission. “Never the easy way, for either of us, is it? If there is a bump in the road, we will find a way to run our cart across it.”

James huffed a laugh and covered John’s hand on his shoulder with his own. “Aye. Always.”

With that, somehow, the cloud of fear dissipated, enough James could walk out the door, John at his side, with a hope they would succeed in convincing Scott to give up his chase. 

And if he would not? 

James would be ready. 

* * *

The day would be hot and humid, judging by how warm it was in the dim dawn light. Insects buzzed around them, stirred up by their motion and the attraction to their sweat. James waved absently at them, measuring his pace on the gentle incline as they neared the bluffs. John walked at his side, with his crutch at James’ insistence, through the jungle path toward the eastern end of Santo Domingo Harbor. Grateful the path stayed free of ruts and roots and clear for John’s sake, though he would never say so, James glanced at John, hoping his remaining anxiousness about their planned meeting with Captain Scott was not as obvious as it felt. 

They came upon the designated spot early, but even so, they found Captain Scott and Hamish standing close, their heads tilted together in conversation, looking out toward the sea. Surprisingly, their backs faced the path as if unconcerned about the possibility of a threat, but as they approached, Hamish stepped back and turned, his hand already on his pistol. 

James wanted to roll his eyes.

Scott turned with a natural slow grace, a faint smile on his longish face, as if Hamish had said something amusing only moments before. 

“Captain Scott,” James greeted curtly, nodding his head to both men, eyes warily skipping from one to the other. “Mister Hamish.”

“Ah. Right on time, I see.” Scott’s deep baritone not sounding surprised in the least.

John, not in the mood for small talk, made an unpleasant face and cut right to the point, his own hand resting on his pistol to make a point as he cut his gaze to Hamish. “What are we doing here, Scott?”

Captain Scott’s only outward reaction to John’s rudeness was a slight raise of his eyebrow. “Captain Silver. John? May I call you John?” He did not wait for permission, or even acknowledgement of his question as he stepped closer. Both Hamish and James tensed, and James found he also had his palm on his pistol, the adrenaline already racing. “I hunt pirates, and you are a pirate. Captain Flint has asked for me to abandon my search for you and hand over the official orders so that you may disappear.”

Scott sounded amused and James wanted to punch him in his full-lipped mouth.

John kept his eyes on Scott, though he widened his stance with a subtle shift of his foot. “Yes. I am aware.”

A smile curled Scott’s cupid bow lips and he nodded. “Good. You may consider this an interview of sorts.” He chuckled at the surprise that flashed over John’s expression, but John kept his mouth shut for now, though he had to grit his teeth to do it.

What the hell was this man up to?

James scoffed, incredulous at Scott’s audacity. “Do you do this with all the pirates you hunt?”

Scott regarded him with a shrewd expression. “No. Only the ones who bother to ask me to let them go free. I find you and Captain Silver… unique enough to garner consideration. Will that suffice?”

James’ lips thinned and he nodded tightly. 

“Now,” Scott continued. “Is this what you want, Captain Silver, or what he wants for you?” He gestured and looked to James who glowered back at him.

James bit back his indignation and his heart tripped against his sternum when John considered the question before answering.

“I want this as well.”

Scott’s keen eyes snapped back to John, and he cocked his head. James got the distinct impression of a cat sizing up its victim before it pounced. “You hesitate. Why?”

John grimaced and his nostrils flared. James watched John’s fists ball and flex at his sides over and over before he answered, and James almost groaned with relief when it was with the truth. “I do not know what my worth will be if I am not on a ship.”

Scott paused at that, his expression turning thoughtful, and his voice softer. “Oh, do not concern yourself about your aptitude on land, Captain Silver. You are a determined man, and Flint will be aid you in whatever you need to learn, I believe, unless I have read him wrong.” Here, curiously, Hamish snorted and Scott ignored him. “But, a few questions before I make any binding decisions, and do please answer honestly.”

“Alright.” John’s tone suggested the directive was anything but alright.

“Why did you become a thief?”

John’s reply came with immediate ease. “Captain Flint and his ship caught our—”

“No,” Scott cut in. “I asked why you became a _ thief _, not a pirate. Try again.”

John’s ears burned red at the admonition and his jaw flexed. “I do not see why this is important.”

“Your motivations, whether they be in the past or present are always important, Captain. They shape who you are. Your story is important.”

James cursed under his breath, understanding this was a line John would be reluctant to cross. John did not talk about his past with James, someone he claimed to love, much less with a pirate hunter intent on seeing him hang. “John, you do not have—”

John held up a hand and shot an inscrutable glance at James. “No. No, it’s... I will answer the question.” He took a deep breath and his shoulders slumped a bit. “I had to… steal to eat, to feed my mother and I when I was a child. I became very good at sleight of hand.”

The words sounded ripped from him, painful and forced. James knew in the pit of his stomach every single one came from the truth, and John did not want to share them, but he did anyway. Guilt and anger washed through James for subjecting John to all of this, sparking under his skin, and he bared his teeth in silent disapproval. He willed himself still and to not interfere, thinking back to the conversation he and John had earlier.

Scott’s light eyes flicked between the two of them, his expression intent because it was a certainty he’d noticed James’ reaction to the line of questioning. “And why did you continue to be a thief after she died?”

The venom in John’s eyes directed toward Scott would have been enough to cow lesser men, but Scott acted as if they spoke over tea and biscuits. It would be both infuriating and fascinating to behold, if James could manage the thundering of his heart. Hamish’s dark blue eyes stayed steady, but a muscle in his jaw flexed.

“It was all I knew.”

“Hmmm. And you enjoyed it as well, I would wager.” Scott threaded his long-fingered hands together and brought his steepled index fingers to his chin. The expression on his face had James blinking. Scott treated John like he found him intriguing, a mystery to unravel_ . _

“Why did you take to the sea? Or, should I ask, what crime did you commit that you had to escape to the sea and engage in an occupation for which you clearly have little taste for?” 

John twitched, and James knew Scott had hit his mark. It was not as if James had not guessed on his own that John had taken to the sea to escape some fate, but for Scott to read him so well after only a few minutes was both impressive and frightening.

“I… I ran a scam in Bristol that went… poorly and needed to make a quick exit.” John cleared his throat. “I boarded the first ship who needed a crew member. The _ Albatross _was Parrish’s ship. The same Captain Flint and his crew found me on.”

Scott’s eyes glittered with amusement. “You mean you stole from someone with money, I daresay. And in Bristol, that would mean…” Here he narrowed his eyes as they lost focus for a beat, then refocused with hawk-like sharpness, “... most likely a local aristocrat or wealthy merchant family. My my. You do have brains and the bollocks to bolster them, don’t you?” He hummed, as if satisfied with the answer, and James wondered at the reaction. 

“Why did you remain on the sea? There was ample opportunity for you to leave it once you reached the West Indies, was there not? Why stay?”

“I had nowhere else to go.” Though John’s expression remained stony, James heard the slight waver in his gruff answer, and by the look on his face, so did Captain Scott. 

Something softened in Scott’s eyes, just a fraction, just enough for them both to see. “Do you _ enjoy _ being a pirate, Captain Silver?”

John kept his mouth shut.

Scott nodded. “Hmm. I think that you believe you do, that it is the only thing you are able to do, and it is true you do it well. One only has to follow the trail of your conquests and listen to the stories told of you in taverns and brothels across the West Indies to confirm this.” The words spun out of Scott’s mouth, weaving around them like a spell. Hamish broke form and gazed at his captain, clearly impressed, his thin lips twitching into a fond smile before returning his attention to James. 

The smile, surprisingly, remained as Scott continued, the words coming faster now. 

“But you do not find pleasure in plundering, and you never have. At first it was an opportunity, then an obligation, but never a passion, and a man who attends to an occupation without passion is doomed to fail at it.” Scott paused to take a much needed breath. “What if I were to tell you that being absent a leg is only a restriction in your own mind?”

John exhaled with slow precision through his nose. “I... I know it is. It is… challenging, however, to convince myself otherwise.” Every word seemed forced, torn from his mouth.

Scott stilled at his admission, the near manic energy sapping from him in an instant. His eyes moved significantly to James and then back again. “Obstacles are easier to overcome, and burdens are easier to bear if you have another to shoulder them with you.”

He knew. Dear God, this man knew of him and John. Somehow, some way, this man knew. James bit his tongue.

“One more question, but it is for Captain Flint, if you will.”

James glanced at John and nodded.

“If I give you these papers,” and Captain Scott made a show of pulling a crisp ivory packet of parchment from his coat, “what will you do to make sure you nor he ever sails on the account again? Papers or no, you know you others out there will not care as much for legal propriety should the chance for your capture come across their path.”

An idea about just that had been forming in James’ mind, but as he had not spoken with John about it, he would certainly not give himself away. 

Heeding John’s words from earlier that morning, James said, “I have no desire to live such a life again, but I cannot make his choices for him. I can only hope he is able to find his happiness as I know I will, away from the sea.”

Scott snorted with delight, and James’ lips pulled into a frown at his response. “Very diplomatic of you, Captain, and also the correct answer. Do you know where you will go?”

“I have... options.”

John’s head whipped to him in surprise before he grimaced and let his expression go blank again.

“I certainly hope so, Captain Flint.” 

In some unspoken communication, both Captain Scott and Hamish relaxed at the same moment, and Hamish took his hand off his pistol for the first time since the start of this bizarre encounter. Scott handed John, not James, the packet, nodding succinctly as John stared at it a moment before slipping it inside his belt.

“Though I cannot speak of my fellow pirate hunters—“ At this, he sneered with disdain, his estimation of the others evident. “—we will give you a fortnight to secure passage to where you desire to disappear. If you are within one hundred nautical miles of here or Nassau at that time I will come for you both and take you without quarter.”

Scott’s tone brooked no argument, and James took the warning at face value. They would never have this opportunity again.

“Why are you doing this?” The poorly concealed wonder in John’s voice made James swallow hard. _ Because he knows us, somehow he knows us, what we are, who we are, and… he understands. _

“Let us just say I am a damn good judge of character, Captain Silver, and can... empathize with your situation to a certain degree.” Scott grimaced, and Hamish made a soft noise. “I was a pirate, but not for the treasure, and sought revenge upon my own demons, not entirely unlike your Captain Flint here. But achieving such a goal had its price, and that price was serving in this occupation.”

James did not miss Scott’s turn of phrase. Nothing the man said was without purpose, and so to call James ‘his Captain Flint’ was more telling than anything said before. 

“But to hunt your own?”

“The safety of those I love became paramount in my decision, as I am sure will in yours.”

Hamish smiled and cocked his head, and the pieces fell into place for James, who had to fight not to clap a hand over his own mouth in astonishment. If Scott noticed James’ reaction, or lack thereof, he said nothing.

“Remember. A fortnight is all I can give you.” Again, Scott and Hamish moved as if they were one unit, in unison as they moved toward the trail on the opposite end of the bluff. Captain Scott hesitated though, angling his curly head toward them both. “And Captain Silver?”

John’s brows furrowed, clearly irritated they were not, in fact done with this. “Yes?”

“Flint has done you a favor. I suggest you set aside your anger at him for putting you in this position and appreciate him and what he has done, and if you do not wish for the same things, it is best for him know that now, rather than later, would you not agree?”

John let out a strangled sound before answering tightly. “I... Yes. Of course.”

That, apparently, was enough for Scott, as he nodded and led Hamish to the head of the trails.

Scott’s words sank in and he turned to John, his chest tightening. Had Scott seen something, heard something in John’s responses to make him say such things? Or was it a shot in the dark? Whatever the case, James’ heart raced.

Heedless of the tempest his final words stirred up, Captain Scott brightly called over his shoulder, “Fair winds and following seas, gentlemen. And may our paths never cross again.”


	15. Chapter 15

_ Death and life, success and failure, pain and pleasure, wealth and poverty, all these happen to good and bad alike, and they are neither noble nor shameful–and hence neither good nor bad. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

The echoes of their steps and breaths sounded thunderous compared to their silence on the jungle path. James followed close behind John, a concerned question hovering on his tongue at the way John limped.

_ Will you let me help you? _

But the question would not be met with anything but vitriol, judging by the sour look on John’s face. That, at least, had not changed. Since Howell had removed part of John’s leg, John had done everything he could to prove to himself and everyone around him he was no less of a man. 

James both loved and hated John’s strength and obstinacy in the matter. And now, John’s gait became more uneven with every step, though he looked in no mood to stop. 

They had not discussed the encounter with Captain Scott yet. As soon as Scott and Hamish disappeared down their path, John had spun and stalked off to their own trail leading back to Santo Domingo, leaving James to stare after him. They needed to talk about it, even though all James wanted to do was growl, throw John over his shoulder, and not discuss a word, just act.

John grunted as his peg twisted in the soft red dirt, not enough to send him down to the ground, but enough to cause him to slow and curse loudly.

James could not stand it any longer. “John,” he ventured.

Head hanging, the muscles under the stretched white fabric of his shirt jumping with tension, John slowed and stopped.

“John, what—.”

“I’m fucking angry.” John spoke to the ground, the words twisting out of his mouth like pistol shots.

That much seemed obvious.

“I know.” 

John rounded on him, his eyes furious and wet. His voice shook. “You do  _ not  _ know. You do not know what it is like to lose a part of yourself, to feel you can never possibly live the life you think you should lead.”

James let the words hang in the air while he gathered his thoughts, trying his best not to lash out at John’s tone. He swallowed and took a step closer to John and the whine of the insects seemed to quiet around them in anticipation as he chose his words with care. 

“When I first came to Nassau with Miranda, I said something similar to what you just said to me.” He closed his eyes and pictured the scene, both of them standing in front of the house they would eventually buy with the profits of selling a portion of the silver she managed to stow with her from London. Nearly every bit went into their home, and when she revealed to him the few pieces she had left, he had fallen apart, despondent, angry at her, himself and their situation. 

“I said to her, ‘You do not understand what this is like for me, to lose my career, the man I loved, everything I worked for in one fell sweep. What the hell am I going to do now? There is no navy here, and none would take me if there were. I cannot build barrels or work in a tavern or become a blacksmith. What do I know of these things?’ I asked her.”

“And what did she say?”

“You mean after she slapped me for being so fucking selfish for forgetting her grief in that moment?” James smiled wryly at the memory, remembering her face, twisted in anger for only a flash before she calmed herself with visible difficulty, brushing her palms down the simple cotton of her dress. He was pleased that he could speak of it now without becoming upset. 

“She said, ‘You will fight. You will fight back against the injustice of all of this and we will survive, but we will do it  _ together _ .’” Oh, the way her eyes had sparked and how her voice had reminded James of iron made his heart twist in his chest. “I am not so sure at the time she meant for me to take her word as gospel and fight like I did, and turn pirate, but fight is what I did.” It was not long after that James turned to the account, and Captain flint was born, his hatred and need for vengeance against England too powerful to ignore.

“And fight is what  _ we _ will do, together.” 

Some anger drained out of John’s eyes, and what it left was... unreadable. “She was a strong woman.”

“Yes, she was.”

They stared at each other.

“Did you love her as much as you loved Thomas?”

The question caught James off guard, and his immediate instinct was to deflect and avoid it altogether, but this was John, and he needed to lay his ghosts to rest. “Yes and no. I loved her. But I loved her… differently than Thomas.” He struggled with the explanation as he had for so long, even to himself. As much as he wanted to define their relationship, he found it impossible to do so. “She was many things to me at various moments for a very long while, and we shared a bond through our grief.” He reached across the gap between him and John and lay his palm on John’s neck where John’s pulse fluttered under his skin. “I wish you could have gotten to know her under different circumstances. She would have liked you.”

On the Spanish galleon during the journey to Charles Town, John and Miranda had barely spoken as far as James knew. John, busy with the crew, and Miranda with Abigail had not much chance to converse, and James certainly hadn’t bothered to introduce them formally. 

John snapped his head up, eyes wide, eyebrows half way up his forehead. “I think not.”

James laughed. “Oh, John. She adored troublemakers and little shits like you. After all, she married one little shit, had an affair with another, and condoned a relationship between them both.”

“You... Did you just call Thomas…?”

“I did, but do not look so surprised. He was a risk taking agitator who loved to get under people’s skin and perpetually irritate them until they finally gave in and did things his way.” James laughed. “It seems I have a type.” 

He had realized it so long ago now, recognizing the similarities between the two men. They seemed so different, but at their essence, they were so very much the same. He pressed a gentle kiss against John’s heart-shaped face. “But my point is that whatever happens, wherever we end up, if we are together we will survive it, and perhaps even find our peace.”

The insects commenced their singing again, or maybe when John leaned in and kissed him with soft lips, he only began to notice them.

John sighed, swaying into James’ touch before he leaned away and said, “You said you had something in mind.”

James nodded and they turned to continue toward town, this time walking side-by-side with John’s hand on James’ shoulder for support— a silent admission of the pain and discomfort his leg caused him. 

“Yes. I know a merchant captain…” James began, and then he filled John in on Maradona and his previous offer of work upon the  _ La Urraca _ .

John glanced at John. “But that offer did not include me.” His tone was careful and even, but James heard the uncertainty all the same. 

“Are you telling me you could not convince him he would be a fool not to take you on as well? If not, you truly have lost your touch John Silver.”

The sidelong look and smirk John gave him had James laughing out loud. “That’s what I thought.”

The edge of town came into view, the merchant sailors’ tents on the beach flapping like birds wings over the sand as men bustled about. James steered them to the nearest road, eager to locate solid footing and perhaps find an excuse to sit and let John have a moment of respite. 

John hummed and squeezed James’ shoulder right before he let go once they reached better walking conditions. “Is Maradona on the island? Can we speak to him soon?” He craned his neck to peer behind them at the beach, as if he could pick Maradona out, even though he had never laid eyes on the man. James supposed Maradona would be hard to miss, but they had at least a day or two before they could expect him.

“He arrives on a regular schedule to resupply and make repairs and should weigh anchor in the next day or so, as long as nothing untoward has happened.”

John’s gaze came back to James, serious and dark. “Let us hope nothing has.”

* * *

James should have expected it. It seemed like fate, how Obeah showed up at just the right moments in his life to guide him to the best path. Therefore to round the corner and find her sitting on the raised deserted boardwalk in front of the apothecary did not come as much of a shock as it should have been. 

Of course, John did not know who she was, or that James would put a hand on his elbow to stop him and turn him to stand in front of her. The result was a comical look of confusion as Obeah rose and scanned him up and down like a prize hen. 

She squinted in the sunlight, and James realized with a start he had never seen her during the day before. Though wrinkled and weathered, she stood as tall as her tiny frame would allow, fists to her hips, and James could see past the age for a moment to a younger Obeah. He had no doubt she had been just as formidable, even in her youth.

“So, you are de one.” Her lips curled up wide in an approving smile, eyes crinkling at the edges. She angled her head this way and that, taking John’s measure.

“Beg pardon?” John glanced at James, looking to him for an explanation.

James chuckled. “John, this is Obeah.” He raised his eyebrows and touched the pouch at his neck.

Comprehension dawned in John’s eyes, which then immediately snapped back to Obeah. He stepped away, at the same time reaching for her hand to bring it to his lips for a courtly kiss as he bowed at the waist. 

“Well met, madam. It seems I am indebted to you,” he rumbled over her knuckles, and then straightened.

James blinked, filing that skill away for something to ask John about at a later time.

“There is no debt, child.” She said, her smile kind and open, and her eyes glittering with good humor. “The world is almost right now for you two.”

Unlike James’ first experience with Obeah, John was very much amused at her observations. He cocked his head and managed his most generous, unencumbered grin, one of the many versions that made James’ heart trip in his chest. “Almost?” John asked.

She hummed and nodded. “Dere is one more t’ing. You,” She pointed at James, her keen dark eyes riveting him to the spot. “Are vivid. Bright and clear.” Then, she brought her finger around to poke at John. “You, though…” She reached up and patted his cheek and tsked. “Your journey is not finished yet.”

The grin on John’s lips faded. “How so?”

Her hand stilled and she cupped his face. “D’ere is no need to fear.”

John stared, and something slight shifted in his expression. If James had not been looking, or had he not known John better, he would not have seen the lie coming. 

“I am not afraid.” 

And there it was, the automatic deflection and denial of the truth that came to John’s lips to protect himself. 

Obeah patted his cheek again, and murmured, just to him, like a mother would comfort a child frightened in the night. “You are,” she asserted, “and he will not t’ink less of you when you share what hides in you.”

John stiffened, his back going ramrod straight as he grit his teeth. “I am not hiding anything.”

With a cluck of her tongue, Obeah let her hand fall away to her side, and her smile turned sad, pulling down the corners of her wrinkled mouth. “She loved you, Jónatas. She would still love you now, and she would love him, too, would she not?”

John’s face went slack with shock, and James flicked his gaze between the two of them, the questions in his head popping up too quickly to manage and spinning out of control, though he kept silent. 

_ Jónatas _ ? She? Who was  _ she _ ?

But, this was John’s moment for truth, not his.

“How…?” John’s voice was fragile, on the verge of breaking, and James stepped close enough for John to feel his support and be within range if John reached for him. 

She sighed and sat down gingerly on the boardwalk, patting the space beside her for John to follow. After a moment’s hesitation, he sank down inelegantly, flinching with a small groan, his peg splayed out and his good leg tucked underneath him. Not wanting to intrude, James remained standing. 

“Child, I know many t’ings. I have lived a very long time in dis world and have seen some t’ings even beyond it. You, I have seen t’rough James’ eyes, t’rough de eyes of the past, too. You t’ink de past is not relevant and we should forget it. Dat because your past is a heavy burden for you, it will be to others. And to anyone else, dis might be true, but not for him.” She pressed two fingers briefly on John’s chest, over the tattoo.

John said nothing, but he trembled, his eyes glassy and wet. 

James put a hand on his shoulder, and John flinched, his eyes swinging up toward him, but not really seeing James at all before looking back at Obeah. 

“Your past does not define you,” she said, “but it is still a part of you, child.” Though not exactly, her sentiment echoed what Captain Scott said during their conversation earlier. 

By now, all the color had drained out of John’s face, and he swayed where he sat, his breaths coming in ragged inhales and exhales. James dug his fingers into John’s shoulder to steady him. 

“Obeah. I think that is enough,” he said. He needed to get John back to his room to let him process all of this. 

She stared up at him, and his skin prickled under her scrutiny and his belly twisted. “Yes, it is,” she agreed, her smile going faint and her gaze sliding to John. 

“Your paths are intertwined, you and James, but your journey is not over.”

“Why? Why do you say that? I thought the entire point was to see James and I—” The words rolled out quick and sharp, and he closed his eyes for a moment to get his bearings, swallowing hard. When he opened them, the misery burned like a brand across his features and his voice sounded like gravel. “Is that not enough?”

“It should be,” she whispered with sympathy, “but you know dat is not what I meant.”

“I want it to be enough, but what if he finds I am not worth the trouble?” 

James stared, mouth open. John spoke as if James was not even there, and that made the spike of worry for him turn hot and uncomfortable.

Obeah scoffed and scowled at John in disapproval. “If you have to ask dat, you are a fool indeed. You want to know what you are worth, child? Look in his face, and you can see it, de amount of worth you have,” she scolded, and John glanced up, a mute apology in his eyes. “Who do you t’ink it matters to, dat you are missing dat leg?” Obeah continued. “And since when have you cared what others t’ink? Never. You chided James ‘bout caring what others t’ink of him, so why is it alright for you to do so?”

“That was different. I wasn’t talking about a missing limb when we had that conversation.”

She made a disapproving noise, clearly not believing him. “No. You were talkin’ ‘bout his missing humanity, were you not? ‘Bout de way he worried people t’ought he was a villain with no soul.”

“But—”

“But nothin’,” she cut him off. “He was wrong, and now so are you. You can hold a sword? A pistol?”

John blinked. “Yes.”

Obeah waved a hand in his face, the movement causing the beads around her neck to clack together loudly, and he swayed back. “D’en you can hold a hoe. A fishin’ pole. Or reins for ridin’ or a tool for carvin’ t’ings.” She cocked her head and reached out to cover his hand with her own. “But I wonder dis. Why are you tryin’ so hard to rush ‘round?”

“What does that mean?”

James had empathy for John. He did not know what she meant either. 

“It means, Jónatas, dat you t’ink you need to keep movin’ and doin’, when you have never had a chance to just... be.”

John stared at her, uncomprehending. 

“But d’ere’s no need to worry, child. You have a knack for findin’ t’ings. I t’ink perhaps you will find what you need.”

John rose, leaning on James to help him up, and yet he stayed with his shoulder pressed closed to James’. “I have what I need.”

Obeah rose, too. “No. Almost, but no. Just remember what I tell you now. De heart, it will lead you where you should go.” She chuckled at some private joke and reached into the folds of her calico skirt to withdraw something which she held out for John to take. “Somet’ing told me I needed to bring dis, an’ I’m glad I did.”

John frowned and stared at what she placed in his palm. A black leather band, a loop on one end and a small carved ivory button on the other lay curled in his hand. Fine silver filaments twisted and then braided together and were embedded into the leather. 

James sucked in his breath through his teeth. “Please tell me that is not what I think it is.”

Obeah smiled. “Dis not for dreamin’. But it will help him how he needs.”

Before they could react, she nodded with finality, and spun on her heel to walk away. They watched her leave in stunned silence until she turned a corner at the end of the street.

John’s eyes flicked down to the bracelet, his expression wavering between hope and horror. “What do you suppose it does?” 

“I am not sure, but I suggest you don’t put it on here.”

* * *

Later, back in James’ room, John sat down heavily on the bed and began to take off his peg, his face screwing up in pain with every motion. When he finally wrestled it off and pulled away the fleece padding, James cursed at the bruising already arising around the scar tissue, the irritation showing red and angry. John groaned in relief when he tossed the contraption to the floor, and laid back on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

Something tugged at James’ gut, and though it took him a moment, he recognized the feeling. His heart sped up in his chest. “Put on the bracelet,” he said, putting aside his nearly overwhelming desire to pester John about the revelations about his past. The name Jónatas swirled around and around in James' head, but the questions about it could wait.

John lifted his arm to squint up at James with a frown. “Are you sure it’s a good idea? What if—“

“Put it on.” A notion had wound its way into James’s head, and it would not go away. He only needed John to put the bracelet on to prove his theory. 

John eyed him with skepticism, but pulled the bracelet out of his pocket. He held it up and stared at it a minute before asking, “Help me get it on would you?”

James nodded, lowering himself to the bed and taking the jewelry from John’s hand. Warm to the touch, the leather band was supple and curled naturally on his skin, almost like a live thing. John laid his hand palm up on James’ knee. 

Their eyes met. “You know what it does, don’t you?” John breathed. 

“No. Not for sure.” James reached for John’s wrist, bringing it closer and wrapping the leather band around it. 

The moment James fastened the bracelet John gasped, his eyes going wide, and then they closed as he sighed. 

“John. Tell me what’s happening.” James had not meant for the words to come out so sharp and panicked, but they did. He squeezed John’s hand to get his attention when he did not immediately respond. 

When John opened his eyes, they were glazed with moisture. “It’s gone.”

“What is?”

“The pain.” His gaze and his fingers slid down to his leg. 

The bruising slowly receding before them, the raw abrasions fading and disappearing, John choked out a sob, the tears now tracking freely down his cheeks. 

“James?” His voice shook. “What did she do? What—?”

“She gave you what you needed,” James whispered, his own emotions threatening to overwhelm him as he ran his fingers over the puckered, but healthy skin. He leaned in and kissed John’s tears away, then pressed his forehead against John’s temple as they both gazed in wonder at the miracle happening before them. 

“I would say she is quite skilled at that.”

* * *

He had not spoken a word about their plans since Obeah left them in the street hours ago, but it was time.

They had spent a good amount of the day testing the boundaries to Obeah’s magic, and though the healing and absence of John’s pain was a miracle, it had severe limits. First, the bracelet’s magic limited the healing to the stump itself. John learned that the hard way when he nicked his forearm with James’ knife. A bandage decorated his arm as proof of his experiment. Second, though the healing was permanent, the constant ache returned the moment John removed the bracelet. In no manner did wearing it make him invincible, but it made movement bearable and for the first time ever John did not dread putting the peg back on his stump. 

When John realized that no pain meant he could move more freely than he had in a very long time, he grinned with wicked intent and they wasted the rest of the afternoon exploring what John could and could not do in bed. It turned out, the absence of pain and worry of reinjury opened up an entire array of possibilities, of which they tried many before falling away from each other, damp with sweat and evidence of their experimentations.

Currently, John stood in the middle of the room, testing his balance on the peg while James watched. Clothed only in his trousers and the peg, John’s current exuberant exertions produced the added benefit of covering him in perspiration and causing him to gleam like a golden god in the candlelight, which James appreciated from his spot where he lounged on the bed. 

“You will need to think of what happens to your ship, and what you will say to Hands,” James said as he picked absently at the blanket covering his legs. A feral smile curled his lips. He almost wanted to inform Israel Hands himself John would not be returning to the  _ Hispaniola _ as her captain.

The thought gave him a shot of visceral pleasure.

“I know,” John said, out of breath as he spun to a stop, his smile, in contrast to James’, was wide and happy. The lines of constant pain gone, he looked ten years younger, especially so as dark ringlets lay in disarray around his face, and one stuck alluringly along his cheek.

James stood, letting the blanket pool at his feet as he stretched. “What are you going to say?”

John paused so long, James wondered if he had heard him. 

But then John bit his lip and looked up with raw, aggressive hunger in his eyes. He took two confident steps forward so he came nearly nose-to-nose with James and then dropped to his knees at James’ feet. 

James swore softly and with feeling.

It was not entirely graceful, but James could forgive much as John curled his warm fingers behind James’ thighs, cocked his head with a soft laugh and said, “I will let you know when I figure it out,” right before he engulfed James in the warm, wet heat of his mouth.

* * *

“What the fuck do you mean, you’re givin’ the ship over to me?” Israel Hands’ expression twisted into somewhere between disbelief and anger, two high spots of color blooming in his already ruddy cheeks. Narrowed, dark blue eyes moved from John to James and back again.

Before this confrontation began, before they had even reached the Boulders, James knew John’s newfound lightened mood would rub Hands the wrong way. Hands’ reaction to the news confirmed his suspicions.

“Exactly what I said,” John said. He stood with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, his posture confrontational but his eyes already bored with the conversation. “You will have no trouble securing the votes for the captaincy, unless you do not want it, in which case Smollett would be the logical choice.” He shrugged and lowered his hands to waist, shifting his weight restlessly from his foot to his peg. “The men will vote for you, though. You just tell them that I am… retiring and that I give you my blessing.” 

Hands’ turned his head to scowl at James. “Did you put him up to this?”

John snorted and James rolled his eyes.

“No. He has a mind of his own that he insists on using.”

“Don’t be a smartarse.” Hands’ eyes narrowed. “This some kind of scheme?”

“Why is it always a plot with you? Can I not just be done with all of this?” Exasperation colored John’s retort.

James sighed. “Hands, let me inform you of something. I have not set foot on a ship for two years. I have not captained one for nearly five. My time on the account has well since passed and you have nothing to fear from me because there is absolutely nothing you have that I want.” This was more truth than he had been prepared to give, but for the sake of expediency to end this and move on, he did not hesitate to continue, his words clipped. “I don’t want your bloody ship, I don’t want control of your crew, and I most certainly want nothing to do with a ship on which you are a crewmember. Is that clear enough for you?”

Hands digested that for a minute, his bearded jaw flexing as he thought. Finally, he grunted and motioned to James with his chin while looking at John.

“And you’re going along with this? You’re leaving everything for this piece of shit?”

John’s lips thinned into a fine line and he talked through his teeth. He had reached his limit. “I think I made my point clear.”

“No. What you are making is a mistake,” Hands spat out, shaking his head. Plenty of men had looked at James as if they had wanted to murder him on the spot, but right now he could think of none more fierce than Israel Hands. 

“I should have known you wouldn’t stay dead and buried like you should have,” Hands continued. “But I tell you what, Silver. You come back to the ship like you have these past six months after seein’ him, split down the middle?”

At this, John blushed vividly and his nostrils flared. James tried to feel some semblance of guilt, for he recognized his part in John’s split loyalties, but could not manage even a tiny bit. 

“You would have lost them anyway, or maybe you haven’t noticed the looks you been gettin’ or the whispers behind your back because your attention’s been here on this fuckin’ island the whole time.” Hands threw up both hands and shook his head again. “But it’s your own damn life, an’ I ain’t goin’ to waste my breath tryin’ to fix something that doesn’t want to be fixed.”

With a curt nod, John said, “Well, then. Fair winds and following seas I suppose, Israel.” His tone left no doubt of the insincerity of his words.

With one last scowl, Hands spat onto the sand. “Fuck off.” And then he stalked away down the remainder of the path to the beach where the rest of the crew worked on repairing the  _ Hispaniola _ .

All James could feel was profound relief the conversation ended without bloodshed.

* * *

Maradona and the  _ La Urraca _ sailed into in Santo Domingo Harbor nearly forty-eight hours later.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: mentions of past whipping/abuse and animal death.

_ I was once a fortunate man but at some point fortune abandoned me. But true good fortune is what you make for yourself. Good fortune: good character, good intentions, and good actions. ~Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

Maradona regarded John with skepticism, and his eyes hesitated on his peg leg. The wind whipped his straight black hair behind him like a flag. “Have you sailed before?”

John slid James a sly look, and James smiled as an innocent child would. “Enough to know my way around a ship.”

“And you are friends with Rubio here?”

“Yes.”

“And you are aware there are pirates on these waters.” Maradona gestured to the harbor and frowned, his voice trailing off for a moment before swinging his attention back to John. “It is dangerous out there. Are you sure you want to—”

“I think we can handle ourselves,” James answered. 

Maradona nodded and stroked his beard as he stared at John and considered him. “Rubio’s word is as good as gold to me, so you are welcome…?”

John glanced at James and colored a little under his tan before he responded. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “Jónatas Prata.”

The smile that lit up Captain Maradona’s face was incandescent, and his eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Ah! Você é português?”

“Minha mãe nasceu... no Porto. Eu só falo um pouco.” John hummed, thinking, his nose wrinkling in concentration. “Eu entendo... melhor do que eu falo.” He laughed awkwardly. “Inglês, por favor.”

John may have been a little out of practice, but the more he had spoken, the more natural the words sounded coming from his mouth. More than once John had shown a gift for languages whilst he sailed with Flint and the crew of the _ Walrus _, so James supposed it should come as no surprise that one of them John excelled at was his native tongue.

Any doubt Maradona might have had dissolved as John answered his question. He clapped his beefy hands together and then shook hands with John, who did an admirable job not wincing at the Captain’s grip. “Alright Señor Prata. Welcome aboard.” He grinned at James. 

Maradona nodded again and walked away, bellowing orders at a group of his crewmen and waving his arms.

James swiveled his head around to stare at John, his mouth agape. “You are Portuguese. And you don’t speak just a few words.”

John’s amused eyes followed Maradona for a minute before answering, his smile fading a bit, and his brow furrowing. “Yes. How did you…”

“Come across some Portuguese ships when I was in the navy. Picked up a word or two.” James shrugged, not interested in talking about _ his _ past in the least. “And you speak with the correct intonation, as far as I recall.”

“I’ve not done so in a long time.”

The tone of John’s voice said quite a bit, but not nearly enough for James to understand. “There is a story there.”

John’s lips thinned and he glanced away. “Yes.”

James studied his profile. “Will you tell me?” he asked softly.

“It’s not important.”

A hush fell between them, and James tried to ignore the sting of John’s repeated denial. What had happened to him? What could be so terrible he did not feel safe enough to share with someone he said he loved? 

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” John sighed. “But, I will tell you anyway, if you like. But not here and not now.”

* * *

A clear sky arced above James’ head, one of those mornings when it was almost unbearably blue and the clouds sail along at the same speed as the ship. Wind teetered on the edge of chilling James to the bone through his loose tunic and wool trousers, tugging on his hair and making his cheeks sting under his beard.

John had not been above deck in quite a while, but James knew where he would be. With a final twist of his wrist, James wound the rope he had been working on into a neat coil and tucked it out of the way. He stood, his back aching, and closed his eyes for a moment against the sea breeze to listen to the sounds of the ship. 

The creaks of the _ La Urraca’s _ deck and the incessant rush of the water competed with the crew’s constant jabber. Sailcloth whipped and snapped overhead along with the groans of forearm thick rope holding everything in place, straining against the weight of the rigging. James smiled with his face toward the sun, drinking it in, unable to deny how much he had missed being on the sea with the power of a sturdy ship under his feet.

Three days they had been at sea, and every moment had been like visiting an old friend. 

Maradona’s ship ran smoothly, his crew trained and efficient. Usually merchant ship crews fell somewhere between navy vessels and pirate ships when it came to work ethic, and though Maradona tended more toward the informal, every man had a duty and did it well. Years of experience and a capable captain who had made them plenty of coin had built an atmosphere of trust— something lacking on most pirate ships, and James found himself just a little jealous at Maradona’s easy rapport with his men. 

Then again, Captain Flint had never cared for building relationships and trust on his ship, so James supposed he could not begrudge Maradona what he worked so hard for.

When James opened his eyes, he found Maradona watching him, an odd expression on his face before he turned to talk to his quartermaster and bosun.

Snapped from his reverie, James took the stairs to below deck two at a time. The sound of soft murmuring and whinnying drifted to his ears, and when he rounded the corner, he found John just where he thought he would be, leaning against the wall of one of the stalls on the lower level of the ship, his back to James.

Horses filled five of the six stalls, the sixth kept empty to rotate a horse into when its stall needed cleaning. The space, though small, was neat and well-cared for, and though there was little air flow, the air smelled sweet with the scent of fresh hay. Each horse wore a canvas belly sling. Attached to the stall on either side for stability, the sling took the pressure off their legs while the waters stayed calm. Should the weather turn nasty, the men who worked with the horses would release them from the restraints to take their own full weight, as they naturally resisted the rolling of the waves and shifted their bodies accordingly.

All five horses were of Spanish lineage, and Maradona had mentioned they were of some breed James could not pronounce, much less remember. The all had similar coloring, mostly a dappled light grey, with darker splotches like paint spills in varying patterns across their bodies.

And John’s job was to take care of them all, along with two other crewmen who he worked with in overlapping shifts.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, James watched John unobserved as he stroked a dappled horse’s velvety nose with the fingertips of one hand while feeding it a small red and gold apple with the other. 

“There you are, my sweet,” John murmured as the horse pulled it daintily into its mouth with its nimble lips and crunched on it with noisy abandon. 

John had taken his position with serious aplomb from the first day, but somewhere along the way, shown he had quite an affinity for horses. And they loved him, too.

Seeing the way John worked with them warmed James’ heart. 

“If Cook catches you feeding that beast his prize apples, he will come after you with his cleaver.”

“Let him try,” John said over his shoulder without missing a beat before turning his attention back to the horse. The other horses nickered softly as James came closer. 

He could appreciate them as much as he was able, but the horses were not as familiar with James as they were with John and they were yet to be at ease around him.

John made a soothing sound to calm the horses before he turned around. Hair pulled back in a tight, neat queue at his nape and tied with a black ribbon, his eyes sparkled with mirth. 

“I would like you best if you did not end up cleaved in two, is the point I am trying to make,” James observed.

“Hmmm. I’m too fast for him now.”

James lifted his hand for the horse to sniff and then scratched under its chin. The horses’ eyes drifted half shut, its long lashes fluttering. 

“That you are. How is it you are so good with these animals? I have seen you ride, which you do well enough as I remember from Nassau, peg or not, but I never saw you care for them.”

John took a brush off a hook and started stroking down the horse’s chest in long, even passes.

Immediately, James recognized he had hit on something from John’s past because the set of his shoulders and the way he hesitated told him much. For days now, he had put off asking for more information about John’s past, and he feared he had just stepped in the middle of it. 

“I had horses as a child.”

“You _ had… _ horses,” James repeated. Not ‘I took care of horses’, or ‘I lived around horses’. 

John flashed an uncomfortable smile and sighed, his shoulders slumping a little as he gave in. “Yes. My... My mãe’s name was Antónia Gertrudes Prata. She was the… courtesan of a minor count named Jónatas in the court of Pedro the Second in Lisbon. I am named after him.”

At this, James made a small sound of surprise, the shock rippling through him like an earthquake tremor as he leaned against the opposite side of the stall. John absently continued to brush the horse, ignoring him, his voice turning flat and unemotional, as if he talked of someone other than himself.

“I never learned my father’s surname, and when I asked, my mother pretended not to hear so often that I stopped wanting to know, and I never saw him. I spent the first six years of my life in what you would think of as absurd luxury on the surrounding grounds, though not the palace proper. Courtesans and their bastards were not to live that close to the royal family. But our home was decent and it included the horses.” John’s lips turned up in a wry smile and he finally looked up and studied James’s open-mouthed expression. 

“Try not to look so shocked, James,” he teased. “You were expecting me to have been born and raised a street urchin, but I was not. My mãe was from Porto in the north of Portugal and born to a shipbuilder’s family with one too many girls. She was soft and kind, with hair as blond as I have ever seen and eyes just like mine. She used to sing while she got dressed and tell me stories of her mãe and her mãe before her, and would bring me treats made with dates and oranges and almonds. She had a voice like music and smelled like honeysuckle on a summer day.” He laughed with little humor, and his tone flattened out again.

“Children of courtesans did not enjoy much freedom at court, lest we tarnish our father’s reputation for existing at all, but we received academic and etiquette lessons from a court tutor, and we even got to own a horse or two. I had two— Hypnos and Thanatos.”

James twitched and snorted at the names, recognizing them at once. “You named your horses Sleep and Death.”

“I did.” John’s eyebrows raised and he smiled. “Hypnos was my mother’s horse, but was the laziest thing on four legs and Thanatos was as black as night and would just as soon bite your fingers off than to let you tend to him, so the names were appropriate.” He turned back to the brush occupying his hands. The horse’s coat gleamed. “Anyhow, courtesans, much like the whores in Nassau, were the ears and eyes of the court, and they learned everything, their lovers having spilled their many court secrets upon the pillows of women like my mother.”

John motioned for James to swap sides with him, and they ducked around each other so John could brush the horse’s other flank. 

“My mother enjoyed an education and wealth through her patron, but she was not always prudent, and tended toward gossip. She learned my father’s secrets and eventually told the wrong person, though I never knew what she told or with whom she shared the secret with, but it must have been of the utmost gravity.” The brush skittered over the horse’s flesh and something dark flitted over his eyes. 

“Within a day of the palace guards coming to our rooms to seize her, they stripped her to the waist in the courtyard and whipped her until she passed out from the pain and loss of blood. One unlucky lash caught the side of her face and her eye, cutting her to the bone and blinding her. They made me watch, crying and screaming for them to stop until I vomited on the guard who held me still. Then they beat me until they snapped my arm and maybe a few ribs. It hurt to breathe for months afterward.” 

Every word seemed to strip the humanity from John’s expression, and all James wanted to do was to tell him to stop and pull him close, but James recalled how cathartic it was for John to tell his story at the fire on Maroon Island so long ago, much like lancing a festering wound.

His heart twisted though, and he could not help but give John the option to stop. “John, you don’t have to—”

John shook his head sharply, his voice finally wavering. “This is the only time I will talk about her or that period of my life, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get it all out at once.”

James hung his head and pinched his brow, nodding. “Alright.”

“The palace guards, knowing my mother and I were fond of Hypnos, killed him outright. I never learned what they did with Thanatos, but I assume they killed him, too. My mãe had barely regained consciousness when they divested us of our belongings and sent us away on the first ship with scarcely the clothes on our backs.”

A shudder ran through John. “So, you see James? England does not have the monopoly on cruelty.”

James’ heart broke for a boy he never knew, but he said nothing. 

“The whipping left its scars on her, including blindness in one eye, but more importantly than her body, the entire ordeal broke her spirit. When we eventually reached England, she quickly found her years in court did her no good in the streets of Bristol, and tried to turn to sewing and mending for local families when she could find employment, though the locals did not trust foreigners and the work could not possibly keep us in food, shelter, and warm clothes for the dreadful English winter.”

John wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and then continued. “When there was no other alternative, she became a common whore, working on the streets, as no brothel would take her with her strong accented piecemeal English and her disfiguring scars. Bad for business, wouldn’t you know? It was a hand to mouth existence at best, and I had to steal just so we could eat, while at the same time trying to keep us both alive by defending her from the scum she served. The life eventually wore her down and would have killed her had not one of her… _ patrons _ done the job first.” 

James winced, but was not surprised.

“Right after she died, authorities deposited me in an orphanage.” John stopped brushing and leaned his forehead against the horse’s flank, and it shifted against him, nickering softly, as if it wanted to comfort him. “That much was true. When I would not tell my name to the men who ran it, they called me Solomon Little, just so they could call me something other than ‘Boy’. Most of them were cruel and frankly enjoyed the discomfort and misery of the children they were supposed to care for. I was only there three months before I ran away.” 

He straightened and started running the brush along the horse’s back in gentle swipes. “From then on, I _ was _ the street urchin you probably assumed I was, but I was smart enough and quick enough to fool anyone I wanted, and I did. It was easier to be someone else, to pretend and act and be a different person entirely. It was how I survived.”

John took a deep breath and swiped at the wetness on his cheeks. “That’s it. You know the rest, more or less, from what Scott surmised.”

James closed the distance between them with caution, not knowing how John would receive him, but in the end, he wrapped his arms around James’ waist and laid his head on James’ shoulder. John trembled and his heart beat so hard James felt it through his clothing.

“One more thing, though,” John said into the fabric of James’ shirt. “Obeah was right. She would have loved you.”

“She loved old sailors did she?” James chuckled and squeezed John to his chest, trailing his fingers over John’s spine in a soothing motion. The horse huffed behind them. 

John leaned back to consider him and smiled a watery smile. “No, she loved strong, intelligent men who could hold their own against her wit. She was very clever.”

James angled in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I would have liked to have had the honor of meeting her.”

A shout from above had them stepping away from each other, hands dropping to their sides as they lifted their eyes to stare at the planks overhead.

Thumping feet and more calls came from across the ship, and James’ stomach plummeted to his boots.

“Sail! Sail off our port bow!”

* * *

“She’s a sloop, Captain. Flying Spanish colors and dragging some of her rigging in the sea,” said Morales, the bosun, as he peered through the spyglass. “Looks like the tip of her mast might be broken and tangled in the ropes above the deck, and it’s knocking against the gaff, which still seems intact.” 

Morales, a small, grizzled man of indeterminate age, stood on a crate to improve his viewpoint, his dark, keen eyes narrowed as he inspected what he could see of the ship on the horizon. 

“She’s drifting, captain.” Stepping down, he handed the glass to Maradona, who peered through it for himself. “And flying a flag of distress.”

James and John glanced at each other, uneasy. 

“What would you like to do, Captain?” Morales asked.

“I’m of a mind to listen to your opinion.”

Morales looked back over the water and frowned. “If we stop to help, we will be off schedule. And depending what else she needs…” Mouth curling into a displeased moue, he heaved a sigh. “But I’d not feel honorable to leave them out there adrift.”

“Señor Rubio? What say you?”

James blinked at Maradona’s question, nonplussed, not because he did not have an opinion, but because Maradona thought to ask him at all. Morales and the three or four crewmen near enough to hear the exchange now watched James with intrigued gazes. 

Maradona raised his eyebrows and handed James the spyglass, who hesitated before taking it from the captain and looking through its lens. The sloop seemed just as Morales had described, damaged and in trouble, but it was still far away and it was difficult to see the full extent. When James lowered the glass, he found Maradona staring at him speculatively, his lip curled at the corner as he waited. 

James considered their circumstances. Since Santo Domingo, the _ La Urraca _ had encountered steady winds, and fortune favored them as it blew in the direction they needed, clearing the hundred miles from Santo Domingo he and John required from Captain Scott and the _ Morrigan _. 

“You need to give thought to the possibility that the situation is not what it seems. It is a common tactic for pirates to feign damage to their ship to lure another close enough to strike. If you choose to approach, look for an absence of men on deck and whether her cannons are at the ready, and if there _ are _ men on deck, notice their clothing. Ill-fitting uniforms on crew members without shoes or an absence of any tidiness about their person could be a sign they are pirates and not merchants.” He sighed and searched over the water and then tilted his head to the side. “That being said, if there is no evidence of deception, we cannot abandon her when we can help.”

John turned to gape at James, but kept his mouth shut. 

Maradona looked impressed, though for him to be as successful as he had been in evading pirates in the past, he must have known all this already, which led James to believe Maradona asked his opinion only to find out what James would say.

This conclusion was both interesting and disturbing.

“Can’t we?” asked Maradona.

James barked out a laugh. “Well, yes. We could. But we are three days out from any port, and that ship and her crew are a pirate’s prize waiting to happen. If we leave them to fate, the chances are high pirates will take them. Could you live with that?” He waved at the open water. “If so, sail on, I suppose. It is your ship and your decision.” 

He would not argue the point if Maradona decided to do just that.

Maradona nodded, again pleased at James’ response. “That it is, but I always listen to the words of the wise.” He turned to Morales. “I already know what you think, Morales.” He handed the spyglass back to him and strode to the quarterdeck stairs. “We go to help her. It is the right thing to do. Besides. Alvaro is never on time for our rendezvous, so I think this once, he can wait for us if by some miracle he decides this once to show up when he says he will. Turn us about.”

Morales shouted the orders, and the men on Maradona’s ship complied without complaint or argument, aiming the _ La Urraca _ toward the sloop.

John and James stepped back and John leaned over. “What if it _ is _ a trap?”

“You are thinking like a pirate. Not everything is nefarious.” James tried not to think about how ironic it was him to say such a thing as the ship began to pick up speed toward the other. Blood pumped fast through his veins, the old feeling of adrenaline familiar and welcome.

“I _ am _ a pirate. I thought you’d noticed...” John stared at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and blinked.

James smirked. “No one likes a smartarse.”

John’s voice dropped an octave and he leaned in close enough so his breath ghosted over James’ ear, sending a ripple of interest down James’ spine. “Except you.” 

It was true. James could not, would not, deny it, and he shivered.

“I know I do,” he said, clearing his throat, and then he focused on the here and now. “But the way she’s listing, I don’t think it is a trap.” James slid his gaze to John and raised his brow. “Though it may be prudent to prepare ourselves, just in case.”

* * *

The closer they came to the sloop, the more evident it became the ship was truly incapacitated. 

As the _ La Urraca _ neared the other ship, Captain Maradona peered again through his spyglass. “It is the _ Great Allen _. I know this ship, though not her captain very well.”

A thread of relief trickled through James at the words. The _ Great Allen _ , not nearly as large as the _ La Urraca _ still blocked the sun as it neared, casting a long shadow over the deck and thus making it easier to spot what caused them to hail the _ La Urraca _ in the first place. 

No cannon shot damage, as far as James could tell. 

“Storm?” John asked at his elbow. 

James nodded. “I see no other explanation.” He looked reflexively to the sky, but only cottony clouds dotted the horizon. Otherwise blue sky stretched for miles. 

On the raised deck at the stern, a tall man stood, waving, and the whole of the crew at the rail, if James had to guess, along with him.

Though they wore no uniforms, their attire showed an air of unity, as if they all frequented the same tailor, but purchased different styles for themselves. A good sign against the possibility of pirates. James nodded to Maradona who had looked at him with a raised brow in silent question.

“Ahoy there, _ Great Allen _! Who is the captain aboard your ship?” Maradona bellowed through his cupped hands.

The _ La Urraca’s _ crew gathered at the rail for a glimpse, and bodies pressed in close to James and John, sometimes obscuring the view.

“Captain Joseph Ainsley, good sir!”

“Ah!” Maradona called, his voice confident and good natured, even at that volume and distance. “Captain Berto Maradona, at your service! We have met, Captain Ainsley, in Nassau!”

James blinked at the reference and he heard John draw a sharp breath, even above the noise of the sea and the murmuring of the surrounding men. 

The _ Great Allen _ was impressive, and even damaged, James appreciated its efficient lines. She was a decent sized ship, and though the damage to her had scattered her rigging, her decks were clean and neat, despite the obvious turmoil the destruction had caused. 

More evidence against a ship full of pirates. James ran a tight ship as Captain Flint, but the nature of pirates was always at odds with his military tendencies for cleanliness and order on the deck of the _ Walrus. _ He may not have given a shit about the state of his own dress, but he sure as hell gave one about how his ship operated. Other pirate captains were distinctly not interested in the orderliness of their deck and crew.

“Captain Maradona! Under normal circumstances, I would say well met, but as you can see, we are sorely in need of assistance. We could not outrun a storm to the north and it caused us much damage. We are hoping for some extra provisions and any spare wood for repairs, if you are able.” Captain Ainsley, now standing at the _ Great Allen’s _ rail waved. His coat was off and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. Though his white-blond hair was pulled back into a tail, strands had begun to escape, the wispy curls around his temples soaked in sweat. Everything else about him screamed proper English captain, however, no matter how worn down he seemed.

After some negotiations, James aware of how precious the materials were Ainsley asked for and how dire their circumstances must be that they even dared ask, lines finally sailed over the precipice separating the two ships, thunking on the decks, the crews of each ship moving aside to let the heavy ropes fall to the boards. Then they all scrambled to secure them before they slithered back off.

“James.”

Something in John’s voice made him frown, and he turned to find John staring, eyes wide, across the breach.

“What is it?”

“James, look,” he hissed. 

A cold dread raised the hair on the back of James neck, and he automatically stepped back to let another crewmember stand before him as he turned to follow John’s gaze.

It was not difficult to find what drew John’s attention. 

He had always been tall, his muscular frame a head above most men and easy to pick out of a crowd. Across the water, on board the _ Great Allen _, Billy Bones worked the ropes with the other men, his muscled arms bare and shiny with sweat. 

Fuck. Oh _ fuck _, this was not good.

Even from this distance, Billy seemed… not quite right— a little bedraggled, a little unkempt, something jerky and uneven about the way he moved. 

“James? What is wrong with— ?”

“Yeah. I see it, too.”

They shifted back, away from the rail while some men swung the gangplanks over. 

James’ mind jumped from idea to idea. Should they hide? Should they pull Billy aside and somehow dispose of him? And then… And then the pieces fell together and he knew what to do, something that would benefit them all. He turned to John and gave him a tight smile. 

“Billy will come over here to help move supplies, I have no doubt. He looks the strongest of the lot, and his captain will certainly send him. When he comes, we need to get him somewhere where we can talk to him alone.”

“Talk? Why the fuck would we want to _ talk _ to him? He tried to kill all of us, and you in particular!” 

“You need to trust me.”

“I do, but—”

“John.”

John’s eyes snapped up, and then his face shifted, the flush receding and the muscles in his shoulders relaxing. “Alright. Will you at least tell me your plan?”

“Yes, but we need to go get something first.”

* * *

“Billy! We need ye down ‘ere for a minute. Help us with this thing!” John hollered up the stairs, his accent laid on thick. James stared at him, a smirk curling his lips. 

“Nice,” he mouthed, and John shrugged.

They had waited for Billy to pass nearby as the crew of the _ Great Allen _ worked above their heads constructing a stop gap measure to fix their split mast while others hauled over barrels or sewed torn sails. Their patience finally paid off when they heard Billy thumping down the stairs into the dim interior of the crew’s quarters. 

When Billy’s feet hit the floor, he had to duck his head to clear the bulkhead. By that time, James and John backed into the ship’s surgeon’s quarters, the only other space on the entire ship with a door.

“In ‘ere!” John called, his disguised voice ridiculous, though Billy seemed not to notice.

“What do you need—” 

James shut the door behind him as soon as he was over the threshold and locked it with a quiet snick.

“Hello Billy.”

Billy whipped around at James’ greeting, his eyes wide, and stumbled backward. James caught him with both hands and set him straight, at which point, Billy’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“You—,” he sputtered toward James. “But you’re—”

James curled a smile he knew made lesser men piss their trousers, aware the dim light only enhanced the look. He cocked his head. “No, actually. I’m not. And surprisingly enough, neither are you. You have the lives of a cat, it seems.”

Billy began to back up again, his eyes widening impossibly when John stepped out of the shadows to stand next to James. “Jesus Christ! The both of you... Oh, God, I have to—”

Both James and John raised their pistols and pointed them at Billy’s head.

James bared his teeth. “The only thing you have to do, Billy Bones, is shut the fuck up and listen.” He gestured to the stool with his chin. “Sit.”

Billy continued to glance toward the door, his breaths coming quick and shallow. He twitched and could not keep his eyes still. “This is not possible. I can’t—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Sit the fuck down already!” John hissed.

Billy sat down, every bit of fight draining out of him at once, the stool rocking back under his weight, and then settling with a solid thump.

James and John glanced at each other, the look fully loaded with expectation. They had gone over the plan only briefly and were hoping on an inordinate amount of luck to pull this one off. Billy may be a part of that merchant’s crew, but they had bet everything he remained something else at heart. 

A pirate.

“Billy. I have something for you,” James said. 

“I want nothing of yours.” Billy stared at the floor and shook his head, as if by not looking at James or John, he could deny their existence.

“Oh, I think you will want this.” James pulled out the worn, folded square of parchment from his pocket and waved it under Billy’s nose.

When Billy said nothing, James opened and dropped it on the table beside Billy’s shoulder. “Do you see, Billy? Do you realize what that is? The map of Skull Island. It will lead you to the Urca gold, you fool.” 

At last Billy looked up, his eyes narrowed, accusing. “I am not blind yet, Flint.”

“Then I suggest you take it,” John said.

Still, Billy did not reach for it. “What’s the price? Whatever it is, I am sure I cannot afford to lose what you want for it.”

Though his words were shrewd, something in Billy’s voice gave James all the confirmation he needed to confirm Billy would take the map, and James lowered the pistol, though John kept his aimed at Billy’s forehead. 

James said, “All I… we want for it is for you to tell anyone you come across that Captain James Flint is dead. You saw me dead with your own eyes. Make up the rest if you like, how I died, where, I don’t much give a shit.”

Dust motes swirled in a sliver of sunlight and the muffled voices of the crewmen overhead filtered through the deck. The silence stretched on, a kaleidoscope of emotions flitting over Billy’s face.

“You… want me to spread a rumor you are dead.” Billy shook his head in confusion. “But some people think that anyway. Why would—”

James made a disgusted noise, interrupting him. “That is only a few, the rest think I am some kind of goddamn phantom because they are not hearing of my demise from someone who could know for sure. I want _ everyone _ to know I am dead.”

“What about him?” Billy waved a hand toward John.

“You can say I’m dead, too.” John shrugged and laughed, finally lowering his pistol, but not holstering. He kept his finger on the trigger as the weapon rested against his thigh. “I don’t know. Or maybe find some other one-legged bastard and turn him into me? You did quite the job of turning me into someone I wasn’t, didn’t you? You can do it again. Then you can do what you like with him, I suppose.” 

James blinked, not sure if John jested or not, both amused and impressed by his creativity.

Billy, however, stared at John as if he was insane, which was ironic, really, considering Billy at the moment did not look as if he had fared too well since Skeleton Island. “Right. And this is seriously all you want?” The skepticism rang clear in his voice.

“Yes,” James replied. “We will be far away from here, and never to return, so it matters little the story you spin, as long as you spin it. We don’t want anyone to find us.”

“Us.” Billy’s eyes widened. “Oh... _ us. _” Then he frowned and looked pointedly at John. “I thought—”

“Don’t think. It doesn’t look good on you,” John said, his eyes flat and his tone deadly calm.

Billy’s lips thinned. “How can you be sure I’ll do it? How do you know I won’t go right to my captain and tell him that Captain Flint and Long John Silver are on board this ship?” His eyes flickered between John and James.

“I don’t.” James leaned in close. “But I also don’t suppose it is likely your captain realizes who you are either. Or did you tell him you sailed with us? That you were on the account right alongside the two of the most feared pirates in the West Indies?”

The dark circles under Billy’s eyes stood out in stark relief as he paled.

“That’s what I thought. Do this for John and I, and it will be the end of it all. For us, at least.”

“You mean you are trusting me,” Billy said, paused, and then huffed a quiet, stunned laugh. “That is exceptionally stupid after everything that’s happened between us.”

A slow grin spread over James’ face, and he answered for both of them. They had him, and they all knew it. “No. I think not.”

Billy gave in with extraordinary composure at that point, straightening his spine and reaching for the map, his eyes roaming over the neat script and sketch of Skeleton Island with a glint in his eyes that pleased James to no end. When he finally stood, James and John stepped back out of arms’ reach, just in case. 

In the small space of the room, Billy’s height seemed amplified. James had never been intimidated by him, and was not now, but that did not make him stupidly incautious either.

Billy stomped up the stairs without another word.

Later, as the _ Great Allen _ limped off toward the horizon as repaired as she could be under the circumstances, James and John watched her receding form and the figure standing at her stern, watching them in turn. 

“Do you think he will do it?” John asked.

James narrowed his eyes and smiled, answering after only a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I think he will.”

* * *

The ebony black of the night sky illuminated by the stars— tiny, sparkling jewels in wide, impossible brush strokes for three hundred and sixty degrees. Even now, after all this time at sea or nearby it, it was mind-boggling, and James recognized his insignificance in comparison. He mused at the fact he had not thought of the stars as something beautiful for a very long time, and he wondered if the man standing next to him had anything to do with his change in perspective.

Most of the crew were below deck, the remaining men quiet as mice as they went about their business while the _ La Urraca _ sailed the sea in the darkness.

They leaned on the rail, silent except for inside their own heads for the past fifteen minutes, a comfortable quiet having fallen between them. 

“Do you know the name of that constellation?” James asked, breaking the silence. He pointed to a group of stars to their left.

John hummed. “No. I am no navigator. You should know that by now.”

“I am not asking if you know it to navigate by it.” James laughed. “Have you heard the story of Cerus?”

When John looked at him curiously, James turned his gaze back to the stars to tell his tale. “Once, long ago, there was a great bull and his name was Cerus. No one knew where he was from, and he had no owner. He was strong and fierce, and he wandered the countryside with no one to rein him in. The local villagers, afraid of his power and his penchant for destroying things, ran from him, but no one dared to try to tame him, even though he was not immortal. 

Destruction followed him like a wave, and he seemed to enjoy crushing the villages to pieces, just because he could and he allowed his emotions to control his behavior, and for no other reason than the satisfaction of watching the villages burn. 

He was out of control, and no one could stop him. 

One day, however, Cerus, busy destroying a field of fresh flowers, encountered Persephone. As the spring goddess, she felt it her duty to attempt to stop Cerus from destroying this beauty unfolding at her hands. Though Cerus could not speak, he seemed to understand Persephone, and she alone seemed to calm him. Persephone and Cerus, over time, formed a bond, and her influence over him taught the bull to behave himself, how to use his strength with wisdom and how to find patience. 

Persephone had to return to Hades when autumn came, but every spring after that, she would meet Cerus to ride on his back as he runs across the land, using her gift to bring the flowers and plants to bloom as they pass by.

Every time Persephone travels back into the underworld, Cerus returns to the sky where he becomes that constellation, Taurus,” James pointed back up to the sky again, “and awaits for her return.”

John’s eyes were soft in the starlight. “Why do I have a feeling you picked that story for a reason?”

James smiled. “And if I did?”

“Notwithstanding the fact that I am presumably Persephone in this tale, that would make you Cerus.” John raised an eyebrow and grinned. “I would say that is about accurate, I think.”

“I suppose it fits.”

John snorted and leaned against his shoulder. “James Rubio, you are an incurable romantic. You know that, right?”

James wanted nothing more than to kiss John in the moonlight, but this was no pirate ship where rules of civilization did not apply, and they could not risk it. Instead, he murmured, turning to look into John’s eyes, shadowed as they were, “When the mood strikes and I am telling stories to someone I love under a blanket of stars, it is not as difficult as one would think.”

The expression on John’s face was something James wanted to hold in his heart for a very long time. 

The loud thumping of boots approaching had them both tensing, though they managed to not jump away from each other. Though Maradona made it clear he had no issue with James’ proclivities, there were his crew members to consider, who were most likely not as enlightened. James turned, putting some space between them as casually as he could, to find Maradona grinning widely at them.

Maradona clapped John on the back, and John grunted. “We will arrive in Villa del Espíritu Santo in two days, gentlemen.”

James and John exchanged a glance. They had been meaning to approach Maradona about their plans, but the incident with the _ Great Allen _ and Billy put off the conversation. Now seemed as good a time as any. 

“Captain, we will be staying in Mexico. I hope this does not put you in a poor position.”

Maradona was already nodding his head. “I figured as much. You are not familiar with Mexico. Do you know where you will go?”

With a small measure of relief at Maradona’s easy answer, James smiled. “I am sure we will find our way.”

For a moment, Maradona looked at James, and James could swear he could see something slide into place in his eyes. 

“I have a proposition for you, Señor Rubio,” Maradona started. “I have a caretaker who checks into my home that I have described to you. But I have not been back for a few years now, and the last time I saw him, he was old and gray.”

James inhaled, predicting where this was going.

Maradona continued. “In my dotage, I think living by myself in such a remote place like that is not what I want. I have come to be used to people around me and think I might go insane otherwise.” He chuckled at himself, and John’s eyes met James’, a small smile playing at his lips. “My caretaker is old and if he is not yet dead, he might as well be. I wonder if you know an able bodied man to take over the job? He would have to live there, tend to its upkeep and gardens, give it the love and care I cannot.”

James swallowed, knowing fortune had landed in his lap, and he fought not to seem too eager to grab at the chance like a greedy man. “I might know _ two _ able-bodied men who would be willing.”

Maradona nodded again, his grin going wide. The night breeze blew strands of hair across his face and he absently brushed them away. “Fair enough. When we arrive, we will wait for my contact to come and pick up his cargo to take up river. When he goes, he can take you there and you can decide for yourself. I will give you a letter of introduction to my old caretaker, if he still lives, and then you may decide from there. I will not think less of you if you decide to go your own way.”

Emotions threatened to well up and over, and when James responded, his voice was rough. “I don’t know what to say, Captain.”

“That is a most generous offer,” John said.

“You do not need to say anything. Just remember what I said. I have known many men, Señor Rubio, and I recognize a good man when I see one, even if in his past he made choices I do not agree with or condone. It is his actions and the company he keeps that interests me.”

The rush of gratitude James felt for Maradona’s open mind and his discretion increased tenfold, and it choked him.

“Thank you,” John said for them both, sensing how words failed James at the moment.

Maradona smiled and inclined his head. “De nada, Señor Prata.”

As Maradona walked away, a jaunt in his step giving away just how pleased he was with himself, James slipped his fingers through John’s, not giving a damn if any of the crew saw, and squeezed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of John and Maradona's conversation:
> 
> Maradona: "You are Portuguese?"
> 
> John: “My mother was born ... in Porto. I just speak a little. ” John hummed, thinking, his nose wrinkling in concentration. "I understand ... better than I speak." He laughed awkwardly. "English, please."
> 
> Side note for John's back story... It started with me wondering why John could read and do it well. At that time, early in 18th century Portugal (as far as I can tell by my limited rabbit hole research), education was certainly determined by class-first born sons of the higher classes got educated, and then went into the military.  
So, all this from the fact John knows how to read. LOL!


	17. Chapter 17

_ Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.~  _ _ Marcus Aurelius, Meditations _

** _Somewhere in Mexico, three months later…_ **

The sun rose over the jungle, the red-orange ripples of its rays starting from the far side of the lake, and then slowly walking their path toward James where he sat at the edge of the white pebble beach. The first warbles of the eventual cacophony began to echo through the trees. It would be a warm day, though probably not as warm as the day before, if the clouds in the distance were any sign. 

He loved this time, when the world came alive around him and the colors went from silvers, grays, and black to vivid shades of every color in the rainbow. The warmth brought out the scents next, nearly overwhelming in their intensity, but just another part of the complex life around the lake, their home.

John slept in the bungalow, and when James looked over his shoulder, he could see him lying belly down on their bed through the large open windows that faced the lake to catch the breeze. Dark ringlets shrouded his newly shaven face and his arm hung over the side of the mattress, his skin a lovely golden color all the way down to his toes.

James had been right about John enjoying sunbathing in the nude.

Their small, yet abundant garden sat between James and their home, and a rudimentary but functional pen held chickens, two goats, and their horse, the dappled mare John had taken a liking to on the  _ La Urraca _ , and which Captain Maradona had so generously sold to them for a ridiculously small portion of James’ hoarded coins. On the shore, a small rowboat stocked with fishing supplies rocked gently, and James thought about going out to catch some fish before John woke, but he knew John would want to come and would be disappointed if James went without him.

James could never repay Maradona for all of this, and he was not even sure Maradona would accept it, even if James could.

He had never known such peace in his life. 

With a groan— he had been sitting a long while— he stood and stretched before stepping out of his trousers and folding them neatly, pulling out the bar of soap from the pocket before he set his clothing down on the nearby mossy rocks.

He stared at the rocks for a moment, smiling at the memory of one of their first days there when they had found them and sat upon them to gaze over the lake.

_ “It seems we have found our rocks.” _

_ “Beg pardon?” James had asked, confused. He was tired from the work they had done on the grounds, but found himself enthralled by the encroaching sunset. _

_ John curled his fingers around James’ hand and closed his eyes. _

_ “ _ _ Come live with me and be my love,  _

_ And we will all the pleasures prove, _

_ That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, _

_ Woods, or steep mountain yields. _

_ And we will sit upon the Rocks, _

_ Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks…” _

_ James smiled, pleased John remembered, though he should not have been surprised. “We have goats. Is that close enough?” _

_ John laughed, lighter and happier than James had heard in a very long time. “Yes,” and then he leaned over to kiss him. “More than enough.” _

James bit his lip at the memory, and then shook his head a little to clear it. It was time for a swim and a bath. 

* * *

James fingers curled into the grass under his hands, his early morning bath a wasted energy, it seemed. 

The first light touch of John’s tongue to his arse was gentle and precise, but James felt like a lightning bolt struck him, the electric thrill jolting down his spine and along his veins.

“Oh God,” James moaned. He knew it would feel good, no matter how filthy it seemed. How could it not? But he had no idea. He and Thomas had done many things, he and  _ John _ had done many things, but never this. 

John swiped his tongue over the furled skin again, more firmly this time, using the flat of his tongue to lick a circular path around James’ hole and then down to press against the skin underneath.

James could not hold back a string of expletives, and John chuckled, ruffling the hairs near his mouth. 

“Hush now,” he whispered into the sensitive skin, right before he licked and sucked his way back to James’ rim. James shuddered and tried to stay still, but failed miserably. He pushed back, wanting more, needing more,  _ demanding  _ more. 

John licked in small strokes over his hole, his tongue alternating between gentle and luxurious and stiff and probing. Nothing had prepared James for this, and it rocked him to his core. He trembled and shook, his body at the mercy of John’s touch, and the sensations overwhelmed him, sending the blood rushing through his veins in violent pulses, his cock twitching in time with his heart. His body reacted in brand new ways, his hole opening readily, trying to pull John’s tongue inside. Ah God,  _ that _ is what he wanted now. The scrap of sane mind he had left rejected the idea sharply before the thought about what, exactly, John was doing drifted away on a moan.

“Jesus Christ, John! Please…” He did not know how he wanted to finish that sentence, or if he should, but sweat rolled down his spine, pooling where his back arched and his chest pushed into the ground, smearing the grass and dirt into his skin. 

Life in the jungle went on around them, the sounds musical and constant, ignoring them both as if they did not exist.

James trembled, his muscles leaping every time John lapped at him. He whined and pressed his forehead against the grass on the shore of the lake as he reached back with both hands to spread himself and nearly came when John moaned against his hole and pushed his tongue further inside. James was cognizant of the fact he cried out, his cock so hard it felt as if it would burst, and his hips involuntarily twitching downward seeking friction.

John’s stubble rubbed along the inside of his thigh, rough and burning, and James felt the warm wetness of John’s saliva dribble down onto his bollocks and John’s thumb tracing the edge of his hole. John pulled gently at the skin, widening James further to lick within and James shoved his arse back when the thumb slipped in beside John’s tongue.

_ Fucking hell. He was going to die like this. _

When John pushed two fingers inside, because Jesus, one was not enough, James pushed back, trying to drive them even deeper, his own hands digging into the flesh of his arse, the smell of crushed earth and grass filling his nose.

John licked and sucked and thrust his fingers and James fucked himself back on them, the urgency to come a constant, burning need he tried desperately to satisfy.

John leant his head on Jame’s arse, his hot breath fanning over James exposed skin. “God, James. Fuck, look at you. I— Christ, I am so close.” He groaned and pressed his face to James’ arse again to slip his tongue in beside his fingers. When James keened into the back of his hand, the undulation of John’s tongue stuttered, his hands and frame stiffening behind James, and then John let out a deep, guttural, dirty moan into James’ arse.

Wetness coated the back of James’ calf in hot, wet, stripes.

God. John came without a single touch to his cock, considering both his hands were occupied with James’ arse at the moment. James moaned again at the thought, loudly and with abandon.

Not able to stand it any longer, James reached down with one hand and barely grazed himself before his orgasm crashed into him, jerking his body in harsh spasm of absolute ecstasy, the jets of spend hitting his chest and the ground.

He sobbed into the grass under his cheek, the arch of his back deepening as the waves relentlessly continued and John’s fingers pumped inside him, grazing the sensitive spot repeatedly until James begged for mercy and reached behind himself to gently push John’s head away. 

Falling to his side, he shuddered and John collapsed against his thighs, the dark curls of his hair falling in waves over the skin of his legs as they both heaved for breath. 

“Oh, my God,” James managed, though his voice was ruined, rough and unrecognizable.

He felt rather than heard John chuckle and then perceived a wet kiss on the inside of his thigh near his knee.

“Good morning,” John sighed.

James groaned, picking the grass out of his still wet hair and off his face, the smell of soap and sweat rising with the warmth of his skin. “So much for taking a bath.”

* * *

James knelt in the dirt, plucking weeds from the vegetable bed, his hair wound up on top of his head in a messy bun, the sun beating down on his exposed neck. He should wear a kerchief, he thought, but at the moment he could not be arsed to get one, and he was almost done anyhow, the bed clear of the weeds that threatened to choke out their plants. They were a constant menace, but everything grew so rapidly they always had plenty to eat, between their daily catch of fish, their vegetables, and what the jungle offered—there were several mango trees, and a plantain tree nearby that they used to supplement their diet. Their chickens were sporadic egg layers, but the goats steadily gave milk. When they had arrived at the bungalow, there had also been a substantial store of dry goods that were still in good shape. 

Maradona had been correct, the caretaker had not been to the place in at least a few weeks, and Enrique Alvaro, the same man who met the  _ La Urraca _ and Captain Maradona when they weighed anchor off the coast of Mexico, confirmed the man had died recently. 

John hammered a nail into a plank of their new dock, sitting on a folded blanket, but smartly wearing a wide-brimmed hat shading his face as he worked. Another few planks and the dock would be finished, and would be something John was proud of, as he designed and built it himself. 

He was quite good with his hands in more ways than one, James found, and without the pain of his amputation, he moved nearly as freely as if he was still in possession of both legs. The crutch disappeared altogether and John only occasionally used a cane for balance when he knew the terrain they traveled upon would be uneven.

The sound of hoofbeats down the path had James straightening and then standing quickly, brushing off his hands. The closest settlement was miles away further inland, and they had not seen their nearest neighbor in weeks. 

It was Alvaro and another rider. 

The horses John took care of on the ship were bound for Alvaro and his ranch upriver, along with some other supplies that were difficult to procure in Mexico. He had ferried the horses, James, and John upriver on a large raft along with two men he had brought with them, and had dropped them off at the bungalow before venturing on home with his goods. The river fed into and out of the lake, making it a part of their route west, and a convenient stop on the way.

That journey from the sea to the lake had taken three days, and during that time, John and Alvaro’s men seemed to get on well, but perhaps that was because they were at first surprised at John’s fluency in Spanish, and then because of his easy, friendly manner. 

James thought of that often, how the farther away he and John traveled away from the ocean, the lighter John became. He smiled more, he laughed more, as if the distance stripped away the layers years at sea as a pirate had draped upon him. 

Alvaro in particular seemed to take a considerable interest in John, speaking with him at length in English— for James’ benefit, he was sure— about their new home and what they would find there. When John was not looking, James noticed Alvaro examining John’s peg with great curiosity, though he was polite enough to look away when he realized James saw him doing so. 

Alvaro never once questioned why two men wanted to live in the middle of nowhere. 

So when Alvaro and another rider trotted into view, James smiled and John, who had left his hammer behind on the dock to stand beside James, called a friendly greeting and waved. 

Alvaro raised a hand back and led the other horse and its rider to a stop before them. He didn’t dismount, but shifted his horse aside. The rider next to him was a young girl, perhaps thirteen years old, her black as night in a thick braid down her back. She wore a bright white, long-sleeved shirt embroidered with red and gold flowers along the wide neck, and trousers. 

“Good afternoon,  Señor Prata. Señor Rubio.” Alvaro raised his wide brimmed hat and set it back on his head. “I see you are busy.”

“Not so busy to speak with you, Señor Alvaro. Won’t you and your…” James started to motion toward the porch of their bungalow.

Alvaro smiled and his eyes lit up. “Oh! My daughter, Lucia. She wanted to meet the strangers I told her so much about.”

Lucia and her horse, a rust and white petite mare, stayed behind Alvaro, but gave a shy smile and a cautious nod of her head as she murmured good afternoon.

With an indulgent smile, James nodded. “Well met.” He glanced back to John, to make certain he was not bothered by their presence, before he asked, “Won’t you and your daughter come in?” 

James’ manners were still rusty from years of misuse, but he was consciously determined not alienate what few neighbors they had, and even though he treasured the solitude, he knew he and John may need them someday.

“No. No, we cannot stay, but it is much appreciated.” Alvaro inclined his head. “We came because I have an offer.”

James started and blinked in surprise. “An offer? Whatever for? You have already done so much…” He let his voice drift off, not knowing at all where this conversation was headed.

“Since this last spring, I have been short-handed at my ranch. I need a man who works well with horses, and I saw how Señor Prata here handled the beasts Maradona sold me as we traveled together.” He turned his gaze to John, his friendly brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “You are a natural, and the horses responded so well to you. I need a man who knows horses to tend my stock and perhaps break in new ones if necessary.”

John made a surprised sound, and he flushed. His eyes flicked to James and then back to Alvaro, a flash of something bitter shooting over his expression before it evened out. “I… That is not something I have ever done before.”

_ Yes, you have,  _ James thought. John was happy here with him, James knew. They both were, and talked about it in depth. but James also knew John was an inherently restless man. Projects and chores around their home kept him occupied and eased his concerns over being useless, but John needed something of his own. 

What a perfect opportunity this was. 

Alvaro’s eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Really? I would have thought you had handled horses for a long while.” He paused, thinking, and then shook his head. “But it is of no matter. I saw how you enjoyed it and your skill. I could use a man like you.”

John’s eyes drifted down to his leg and he frowned, the color on his cheeks deepening. James’ heart twisted in his chest. 

“Look, Señor Alvaro,” John began, “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t know that I could be of much help to you.”

Alvaro cocked his head and gave him an odd smile. “Do you think because of your leg, you cannot do what I ask?”

James smirked at his bluntness, but kept silent. He liked this man.

John snapped his head up, surprised at Alvaro’s words, before he shrugged and shifted his weight, a sure tell he was uncomfortable. “Well, yes. To ride horses and care for them, to be responsible for your animals when I am limited in what I can do seems like more of a hindrance than a help.”

Alvaro was silent for a moment, but then he nodded. “I thought you might say such things.” He cleared his throat and called over his shoulder. “Lucia, come here, por favor.”

After only a moment’s hesitation, Lucia moved her mare forward so her father’s horse and hers were side by side. 

“Turn.” Alvaro motioned, drawing a circle in the air with his finger.

“Yes, Papá,” Lucia said as she did as she was asked without further comment, clucking her tongue at her horse and pulling at her reins to rotate her around, exposing her previously concealed right side. 

James sucked in a breath. 

Oh. Oh this was  _ fantastic. _

Two things struck him at once. The first was the fact that Lucia’s right leg ended directly below her knee, in much the same way John’s did, and her stirrup was modified for her own peg leg, though hers was carved from a wood instead of iron. The wood was painted in bright colors, with tiny flowers looping over and around the wood like a garland. 

Someone spent time and effort to make it beautiful, so the eye was drawn to it instead of skittering away. Quite a statement, James thought. 

Alvaro leaned forward in his saddle to be sure he had John’s attention. His smile was wide and genuine and did not mask the empathy that lurked in his eyes. “My daughter was born like this, and she has been riding since she was old enough to stand. She is not…  _ limited _ by her lack of a leg, and neither should you be. She does some of the work with the horses, but she cannot do it alone and needs help.”

John stood agape for a moment before he came back to himself and snapped his mouth shut with a clack. “I still don’t—,” he started

James put his hand on John’s arm. “ _ John _ .”

John stopped talking.

“ _ Look _ .”

The second thing James had noticed were the markings on Lucia’s horse. She was a beautiful mare, sleek and obviously well cared for, her rust and white coat gleaming in the sun.  The hair along her rump was a nearly solid red-brown from her fetlocks  to her flank except of one well-placed white patch.

A white patch in the very distinct shape of a heart. 

“‘ _ The heart, it will lead you where you should go _ ’,” John whispered.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” James chest tightened and joy surged through him, wrapping around him like a warm blanket. 

Obeah and her words. If she stood in front of him in that moment, James would have kissed her on the mouth. 

John’s eyes met James’, John’s shining with moisture before his smile cracked wide and he nodded, a wet, happy laugh bubbling up and out. 

“Señor Alvaro, when can I start?”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, readers! I appreciate all your kudos, comments, and support! xoxo ~Armada

**Author's Note:**

> An everlasting thank you to my beta and brainmate, ShinySherlock! I could not have done this without her help. <#
> 
> Comments and kudos much appreciated and encouraged if you like it! <3


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